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A   DAUGHTER   OF  THESPIS 


h^      A 

f DAUGHTER  IS^ 
mi  OF    THESPIS 

I     By  JOHN   D.  BARRY     ff, 

AUTHOR  OF 

"MADEMOISELLE     BLANCHE,' 

"THE  INTRIGUERS,"  "THE 

PRINCESS    MARGAR- 

ETHE,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


Lu  C  PHGE 
and    COMPHNY 

■BOSTON-^  rtcnmt  i^ 


Copyright,  i8g4 
By  The  Tribune  Association 

Copyright,  igoj 
By  L.  C.  Page  &  Company 

(incorporated) 
All  rights  reserved 


Published  April,  1903 


ffolonial  $rtM 

Eloctrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Sitnonds  &  Co. 

Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    THESPIS 


I. 


Evelyn  Johnson  was  sitting  in  her  dressing- 
room  in  the  Yonkers  Music  Hall.  On  a  chair  lay 
the  white  muslin  gown  that  she  wore  in  the  first  act. 
Madge  Guernsey  was  making  up  her  face  and  neck 
in  front  of  the  mirror ;  beside  her  stood  a  dressing- 
table,  littered  with  rouge-pots,  cherry-lip,  powder- 
boxes,  combs,  and  brushes. 

Evelyn  stared  listlessly  at  her  dress,  as  if  she 
had  not  energy  enough  to  put  it  on.  "  Oh,  I'm  so 
tired,"  she  said,  passing  her  hand  over  her  face. 
"  I'm  glad  the  season  is  over." 

"  I  should  be  glad,  too,  if  I  wasn't  broke,"  said 
Madge.  "  Why  didn't  I  have  the  sense  to  save  up 
—  like  you  ?  " 

"  Still,  you  have  your  home  to  go  to,"  said  Evelyn, 
with  a  sigh. 

Madge  yawned.  "  Oh,  yes ;  homes  are  all  right 
sometimes.  But  if  I  had  to  stay  home  all  the  time ! 
Ugh!" 

"  Perhaps  you'd  feel  differently  if  you  didn't  have 
a  home,"  said  Evelyn,  quietly. 

Evelyn  Johnson  was  leading  woman  of  the 
II 


12       ♦       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

"  Flame  of  Life  "  Company.  She  had  begun  her 
career  on  the  stage  of  the  Boston  Museum  at  the 
age  of  eighteen,  as  one  of  the  supernumeraries,  and 
she  had  been  acting  for  seven  years.  Since  the 
death  of  her  mother,  she  had  been  brought  up  in 
Boston  by  her  mother's  unmarried  sister,  who  sent 
her  to  the  high  school  to  make  a  teacher  of  her; 
but  the  work  had  broken  down  her  health.  After 
her  recovery,  one  of  her  aunt's  boarders  secured  for 
her  a  position  at  the  Boston  Museum.  She  had  no 
romantic  ambitions ;  she  wished  to  become  an  actress 
simply  to  earn  her  living. 

After  her  two  years  of  apprenticeship  at  the 
Museum,  Evelyn  was  given  an  understudy.  One 
night  the  actress  who  had  the  part  was  taken  ill. 
Somewhat  to  her  surprise,  Evelyn  made  a  good 
impression.  The  papers  praised  her  with  the  gener- 
osity always  shown  actors  who  meet  an  emergency; 
the  manager  expressed  satisfaction.  Evelyn  played 
the  part  during  the  remaining  fortnight  that  the  piece 
ran,  and  two  parts  in  new  pieces.  The  next  season 
she  was  engaged  as  a  regular  member  of  the  stock 
company  at  a  salary  of  fifteen  dollars  a  week,  and 
she  remained  in  the  company  for  three  years.  After 
the  death  of  her  aunt,  during  her  last  year  at  the 
Museum,  she  lived  alone,  in  a  boarding-house  near 
the  theatre. 

At  the  close  of  her  long  experience  at  the  Museum, 
Evelyn  secured  an  engagement  as  leading  woman  of 
the  "  Flame  of  Life  "  Company.  It  was  second- 
class,  but  she  knew  that  no  first-class  company  would 
give  her  so  good  a  chance.  That  year  was  the  hap- 
piest in  her  life;  the  world  seemed  to  be  opened  to 
her.    The  company  travelled  through  the  West  and 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       ^       13 

South,  as  far  as  CaHfornia.  Most  of  the  other  mem- 
bers, Evelyn  was  surprised  to  discover,  rarely  took 
the  trouble  to  go  about  in  the  different  cities  and 
towns  where  they  played;  they  preferred  to  stay 
in  the  hotel.  Evelyn  explored  every  new  place,  and 
she  thought  she  could  feel  her  mind  expanding  as 
her  horizon  enlarged. 

It  was  when  they  had  been  on  the  road  six  weeks 
that  Harold  Seymour,  the  young  Englishman  who 
played  opposite  her  in  the  piece,  began  to  join  her 
in  her  daily  walks.  He  w^as  a  big,  handsome  man 
of  thirty-two,  with  black  curly  hair  and  with  a  face 
that  could  bear  being  close-shaven.  He  had  a  deep 
chest  and  a  heavy  voice,  and  he  was  by  far  the  best 
actor  in  the  company.  When  the  curtain  went  down 
on  the  climax  of  the  last  act,  he  used  to  laugh  as  he 
held  her  in  his  arms  to  hide  the  tears  in  his  eyes. 

Evelyn  soon  felt  a  new  interest  in  her  work.  Her 
comrades  spoke  of  her  improvement.  Her  scene 
with  Seymour  in  the  first  act  was  played  with  a 
tenderness  she  had  never  been  able  to  express  before ; 
her  jealousy  in  the  second  act  seemed  real,  and  her 
pathos,  when  her  lover  returned  too  late  to  save 
her  from  dying  of  a  broken  heart,  used  to  move 
many  of  the  women  in  the  audience  to  tears. 

The  company  soon  began  to  discuss  her  friendship 
with  Seymour.  Mrs.  Barton,  the  first  old  woman, 
repeated  their  remarks  to  Evelyn ;  she  said  she 
thought  it  was  her  duty.  For  the  rest  of  the  day 
Evelyn  shut  herself  up  in  her  room.  That  night, 
after  the  performance,  she  told  Seymour  they  must 
not  be  seen  together  any  more.  When  she  refused 
to  explain,  he  told  her  that  he  had  been  in  love 
with  her  for  months.     That  was  how  they  became 


14       <^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

engaged.  It  was  in  Seattle,  one  cold  February  night, 
as  they  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  Albemarle  Hotel. 

In  March,  Seymour,  whose  ability  had  attracted 
the  attention  of  Dodson,  one  of  the  most  successful 
managers  in  the  country,  was  engaged  for  the  fol- 
lowing year  as  leading  juvenile  of  Dodson's  Broad- 
way Stock  Company.  He  urged  Evelyn  to  marry 
him  at  the  close  of  the  season  and  to  give  up  acting ; 
but  she  was  afraid  that  marriage  at  the  beginning  of 
his  career  in  New  York  might  interfere  with  his 
success ;  so  she  signed  again  with  the  "  Flame  of 
Life." 

She  began  her  season  in  September.  Every  day 
Seymour  wrote  to  her  from  New  York,  where  he 
had  taken  an  apartment.  The  new  "  Philip  "  was  a 
man  of  forty,  with  a  fondness  for  brandy,  which 
she  was  obliged  to  inhale  every  night.  In  December, 
Harold  Seymour  wrote  irregularly.  Once,  for  four 
days,  he  did  not  write  at  all.  Evelyn  became  nearly 
frantic,  and  she  forgot  her  lines.  Then  at  last  she 
heard  from  him ;  he  had  been  so  busy  learning  two 
new  parts  that  he  had  had  no  time  to  write.  This 
excuse  hurt  her;  he  might  have  taken  time.  One 
night  at  the  theatre,  she  found  a  newspaper,  directed 
to  her  en  route.  It  contained  a  marked  paragraph 
exploiting  a  scandal  in  which  Seymour  was  con- 
spicuously mentioned. 

That  night  she  caught  several  members  of  the 
company  watching  her.  Some  of  them  had  probably 
received  copies  of  the  paper,  too.  When  she  reached 
the  hotel  she  found  two  letters  from  Seymour.  She 
placed  them  unopened  with  the  letters  she  had  taken 
from  her  trunk,  and  she  sent  them  all  back. 

After  that  night  she  lost  interest  in  her  work. 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «^       15 

She  began  to  hate  the  stage,  the  paint  and  powder, 
the  dinginess  of  the  dressing-rooms,  the  sight  of 
the  dull  faces  of  the  audience.  As  her  interest 
waned,  her  acting  deteriorated ;  the  newspapers  com- 
plained ;  the  manager  remonstrated.  For  a  time  she 
made  an  effort;  but  she  was  not  surprised  to  hear 
that  another  actress  had  been  engaged  in  her  place 
for  the  following  season. 


II. 


As  Evelyn  placed  in  her  belt  the  property  rose  that 
she  wore  during  the  first  act,  she  sighed  at  the 
thought  of  giving  up  a  character  associated  with  the 
only  happiness  of  her  life. 

"  What  time  do  you  start  for  Boston  ?  "  asked 
Madge  Guernsey,  who  devoted  a  great  deal  of  time 
to  her  make-up,  and  was  now  at  work  on  her  eye- 
brows. 

"  Four  o'clock  train,  I  think,"  Evelyn  replied, 
absently.  She  turned  at  the  sound  of  a  knock.  A 
red-haired  boy  with  a  sharp  nose  thrust  his  head 
into  the  room. 

"  Say,  Miss  Johnson,  Wesley's  nearly  crazy.  Billy 
Buckner's  gone  off  on  a  jag  down  in  New  York.  I 
guess  th'  ain't  goin'  to  be  any  show." 

The  red  head  disappeared,  and  the  door  was  closed 
with  a  bang. 

Evelyn  looked  at  Madge  Guernsey. 

"  No  performance!  "  said  Madge.  "  I  knew  that 
fellow'd  queer  us  before  the  season  was  over.  Did 
it  just  to  spite  Wesley,  I  suppose,  because  he  wasn't 
engaged  for  next  year."  She  glanced  despairingly 
at  her  costume.  "  I  might  as  well  take  this  rig  off 
an'  go  back  to  the  hotel." 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Wesley  will  get  one  of  the  boys  to 
i6 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       ^       17 

play  the  part,"  said  Evelyn.  "  Buckner  has  an 
understudy,  hasn't  he?" 

"  Tommy  Watson's  been  understudying  him;  but 
he  didn't  come  up.  Wesley  let  him  off  so  he  could 
take  the  night  train  for  home.  He  lives  out  in  some 
God-forsaken  place  in  Ohio.  One  of  the  boys  is 
going  to  double  up  in  his  place." 

A  moment  later  the  red  head  shot  into  the  room 
again. 

"  It's  all  right.  Wesley's  got  some  one  from  New 
York  to  play  the  part.  He  was  in  front.  Wasn't  it 
great  luck,  though?" 

A  second  time  the  head  vanished  and  the  door 
banged. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  pull  him  through,  who- 
ever he  is,"  said  Evelyn.     "  What  a  nuisance !  " 

"  Perhaps  he'll  read  the  lines.  Wesley  must  be 
in  front  of  the  curtain  now  apologising." 

"  The  performance  will  probably  be  delayed  a 
little  while  to  give  him  a  chance  to  read  over  the 
first  act,"  Evelyn  went  on.  "  But  he  won't  have  to 
dress  for  it.  '  Philip  '  wears  street  clothes,  you  know, 
in  his  first  scene.  Besides,  he  doesn't  come  on  till 
the  act's  half  over." 

Again  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  the  red  head 
appeared. 

"  Everything  ready.  Miss  Guernsey,  here's  your 
duster.  Better  hustle,  or  Wesley'll  come  swearing 
round  here." 

Madge  seized  the  duster.  "  I'm  going  to  make 
a  mash  on  the  new  '  Philip,'  "  she  said,  as  she  closed 
the  door  behind  her. 

Evelyn  could  hear  the  last  strains  of  the  orchestra. 
After  a  brief  silence,  she  knew  the  curtain  had  risen. 


1 8       ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

In  a  few  moments  it  would  be  time  for  her  to  go  on. 
But  she  must  first  speak  to  the  substitute  and  talk 
over  the  business  of  their  scene  together.  She  rose 
quickly,  pinned  to  her  blond  wig  a  large  white  straw 
hat  with  red  roses,  deftly  touched  her  face  with  a 
powder  puff,  and  stepped  out  into  the  corridor. 
The  electrician  was  standing  in  his  shirt-sleeves  at 
one  of  the  stage-entrances,  and  on  a  pile  of  old 
scenery  two  of  the  young  men  were  playing  poker. 
She  could  hear  Wesley's  rough  voice  denouncing 
Buckner.  She  wondered  where  the  substitute  was; 
probably  in  one  of  the  dressing-rooms,  trying  to 
catch  the  drift  of  his  lines  before  going  on ;  it  was 
strange  Wesley  hadn't  sent  him  to  talk  over  the 
stage  business  with  her.  But  she  had  no  time  to  go 
to  his  room ;  in  a  moment  her  cue  would  be  spoken. 
He  would  have  to  trust  to  luck.  Then  she  took  her 
place  in  the  wings,  and  after  giving  a  few  final 
touches  to  her  hair  and  throwing  back  the  train 
of  her  gown,  she  made  her  entrance. 

Her  first  scenes  dragged.  As  the  time  approached 
for  the  entrance  of  "  Philip,"  she  looked  into  the 
wings  to  see  if  Buckner' s  substitute  were  there. 
She  could  distinguish  the  dark  outlines  of  a  tall 
figure  standing  behind  the  electrician,  his  head 
bent  low,  probably  over  a  prompt-book.  The  stage 
business  required  her  to  sit  at  the  front  of  the  stage, 
facing  the  audience,  before  "  Philip  "  entered ;  he 
would  come  on  without  being  heard  and  stand  look- 
ing at  her  for  a  moment.  When  he  spoke  she  would 
suddenly  rise  from  her  seat;  on  recognising  him 
she  would  exclaim  "  Philip !  "  and  stagger  against 
the  back  of  her  chair. 

As  she  took  her  seat  after  giving  "  Philip  "  his 


4^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «f»       19 

cue,  she  heard  swift  steps  on  the  stage.  She  at 
once  thought  of  Harold  Seymour,  and  a  picture  of 
Seymour,  standing  with  his  silk  hat  in  one  hand 
and  his  heavy  stick  in  the  other,  flashed  into  her 
mind.  She  recited  her  soliloquy  monotonously. 
When  she  heard  "  Mabel  "  whispered  from  behind, 
she  started.  She  would  have  recognised  the  voice 
anywhere, 

Evelyn  stood  so  long  without  speaking,  that 
Seymour  whispered  the  line  to  her.  Then  she  roused 
herself.  Seymour,  who  was  a  quick  study,  and 
whose  lines  had  come  back  to  him  as  soon  as  he 
had  read  them  once  over,  played  with  the  old  fire 
and  finish.  He  had  the  facile,  emotional  tempera- 
ment that  makes  good  romantic  actors.  Every  line 
he  spoke  conveyed  a  peculiar  meaning  to  both  of 
them.  The  piece  was  melodrama,  made  up  of 
improbable  situations,  and  mawkish  sentimentality. 
Evelyn  had  never  realised  how  bad  it  was  until  she 
played  it  with  Buckner. 

However,  she  could  not  help  being  inspired  by  the 
intensity  with  which  Seymour  acted.  She  forgot 
that  the  night  was  hot,  that  the  audience  was  bored, 
that  she  herself  was  fagged.  Their  scene  was  long, 
and  to-night  it  taxed  her  strength ;  it  seemed  to  her 
that  it  never  would  end;  Seymour  elaborated  it, 
by  introducing  new  bits  of  business  and  by  making 
long  pauses  between  his  speeches  and  her  own  when- 
ever he  could.  She  wondered  if  he  was  trying  to 
torment  her.  His  slowness  was  really  due  to  the 
training  of  the  stage-manager  of  the  company  to 
which  he  belonged,  who  valued  deliberateness  in 
acting.  Yet,  though  anxious  to  finish  the  scene, 
she  dreaded  the  climax.     When  the  time  came  for 


ao       «^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

her  to  fall  into  his  arms,  instead  of  kissing  her  on  the 
forehead  as  the  stage  business  required  him  to 
do,  and  as  he  had  always  done,  he  kissed  her  on 
the  mouth.  Their  lips  were  pressed  together  as 
the  curtain  fell  with  a  slow  swish  to  the  stage.  She 
trembled  with  indignation,  and,  her  eyes  flashing, 
she  tore  herself  away  from  him,  gathered  her  skirts 
in  one  hand,  and  ran  to  her  dressing-room. 


III. 


Evelyn  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  among  the  rouge-pots  and  powder- 
boxes,  and  burst  out  crying. 

"  You'll  look  like  a  fright,  my  dear,"  said  Madge, 
with  a  significant  upward  inflection. 

"  I'm  the  most  wretched  being  in  the  world." 

"  But  I  wouldn't  make  myself  more  wretched  if 
I  were  you.  Besides,  I  wouldn't  give  any  man  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  that  he  could  make  me 
wretched." 

"  I  can't  help  it." 

Evelyn  sat  helplessly  while  Madge  deftly  unlaced 
her  dress.  She  felt  exhausted  a  few  moments  later 
as  she  rose  to  survey  herself  in  the  mirror. 

"  Well,  you  haven't  improved  your  looks  by  that 
crying  fit  of  yours.  But  you  might  look  worse. 
Let  me  put  just  the  least  bit  of  rouge  on  that  left 
cheek.  There!  That's  better.  Now  you're  ajll 
right.  But  if  I  were  you  I  wouldn't  have  another 
deluge.     I  don't  believe  I  could  fix  you  up  again." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I'm  to  get  through." 

"  Oh,  you'll  be  all  right."  Then  Madge  added, 
with  a  laugh :  "  He  got  Wesley  out  of  a  scrape, 
didn't  he  ?  If  he  hadn't  come  up  to  see  you  to-night, 
we  couldn't  have  had  any  show.  I  kind  of  thought 
he  might  be  in  front." 


22       ^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

Evelyn  said  nothing.  "  Oh,  you  spiteful  thing !  " 
Madge  exclaimed,  pushing  her  out  of  the  dressing- 
room.  On  the  stage,  she  gained  courage.  When 
the  curtain  rose  the  footlights  stimulated  her.  She 
would  show  him  how  indifferent  she  could  be.  Be- 
sides, this  act  would  be  easier  for  her. 

In  her  first  scene  with  "  Philip  "  Evelyn  had  to 
express  the  beginnings  of  jealousy.  This  was  short, 
and,  after  their  reconciliation,  they  left  the  stage 
together.  When  they  reached  the  wings,  she  tried 
to  disengage  her  arm,  but  Seymour  held  it. 

"  You  don't  seem  very  glad  to  see  me,  Evelyn," 
he  said. 

"  Won't  you  release  my  arm?  "  she  replied,  look- 
ing into  his  face. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  walked  away. 
She  hurried  into  her  dressing-room  with  a  curious 
feeling  of  satisfaction.  He  was  sensitive,  and  she 
had  hurt  him.  A  few  minutes  later  she  had  to 
return  to  the  stage  for  the  climax  of  the  act.  It 
was  a  long  scene,  calling  first  for  reckless  gaiety, 
which  she  knew  she  never  did  well,  then  for  the 
reading  of  a  letter  disclosing  her  lover's  perfidy, 
and  the  passionate  outburst  at  the  close.  When 
the  scene  was  over,  Seymour  whispered :  "  Bully 
for  you !  How  you  have  improved !  "  She  pre- 
tended not  to  hear  the  compliment,  but  it  made 
her  feel  like  the  runner  in  a  race  when  he  hears 
the  cheering  of  his  friends. 

The  last  act  was  an  anticlimax.  Evelyn  thought 
that  "  Mabel  Annerly  "  showed  despicable  weakness 
in  forgiving  the  man  who  had  deceived  her;  besides, 
the  interest  was  not  sustained,  and  the  apathy  of  the 
audience  always  reacted  upon  her.     To-night  the 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «f»       23 

excitement  that  had  kept  her  up  during  the  first 
three  acts  was  exhausting,  and  she  had  little  strength 
for  the  final  scene.  As  they  went  on  the  stage, 
Seymour  noticed  the  change. 

"  You  look  tired,"  he  whispered  between  their 
speeches.  She  made  no  reply,  but  he  continued  to 
fill  the  gaps  in  the  dialogue  with  bits  of  talk. 

"  So  you  despise  me,"  he  said.  ..."  Well,  I 
suppose  I  deserve  it ;  but  you  women  have  no  pity. 
.  .  .  You  expect  us  all  to  be  saints,  and  when  you 
find  that  we're  not  you  throw  us  down.  .  .  .  You 
might  at  least  have  read  my  letters.  ...  If  you 
knew  what  I've  been  through  since  you  broke  with 
me,  perhaps  you  wouldn't  be  so  unfeeling.  .  .  .  But 
some  women  like  to  make  men  suffer.  ...  I  thought 
that  you  weren't  that  kind.  .  .  .  But  you're  just 
like  the  rest  of  them." 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  act  never  would  end. 
Yet  she  knew  she  was  playing  with  her  old-time 
earnestness;  she  could  feel  that  the  audience  was 
"  with  her  " :  that  inspiring  sensation  she  had  not 
experienced  for  several  months.  Several  of  the 
members  of  the  company  were  in  the  wings  watching 
her.  Ever  since  the  breaking  of  her  engagement 
they  had  not  had  delicacy  enough  to  conceal  their 
pity  for  her. 

When  the  curtain  fell,  Seymour  held  her  in  his 
arms.  He  released  her  without  speaking,  and  she 
would  have  hurried  away  if  the  members  of  the 
company  had  not  gathered  round  her  to  say  good- 
bye. Mrs.  Barton,  who  played  the  old  woman,  and 
who  had  been  in  the  company  the  year  before,  had  a 
chaffing  conversation  with  Seymour;  she  said  she 
was  glad  his  New  York  successes  hadn't  made  him 


24       *^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *f» 

too  stuck-up  to  play  with  common  folks.  Then  she 
took  him  to  one  side,  and  Evelyn  could  see  the 
pair  in  earnest  conversation  in  a  dark  corner  of 
the  stage. 

Several  of  the  company  were  going  down  to  New 
York  that  night ;  the  others  intended  to  stay  at  one 
of  the  local  hotels.  Evelyn  usually  went  home  with 
Mrs.  Barton ;  but  to-night  she  didn't  know  whether 
the  old  woman  intended  to  go  to  the  city  or  not. 

After  saying  good-bye  to  the  boys  and  to  Mike, 
the  property  man,  and  Katy,  his  wife,  Evelyn  hesi- 
tated a  moment  before  going  to  her  dressing-room, 
trying  to  make  up  her  mind  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Barton, 
who  was  still  talking  with  Seymour,  She  could  not 
gather  courage  to  interrupt  the  conversation;  so 
turned  away  into  the  wings.  But  just  as  she 
was  leaving  the  stage,  the  old  woman  called  out : 

"  Wait  a  minute,  dear." 

Mrs.  Barton  came  up  in  her  old-fashioned  skirts, 
her  face  covered  with  patches  of  rouge  and  powder. 
"  Going  down  to  New  York  ?  Yes,  I'm  going,  too ; 
I'll  wait  for  you.  We  can  catch  the  half-past 
eleven  train.  They  run  every  half-hour,  Katy  says. 
Katy  once  lived  here.  My  dear,  you  were  great 
to-night.  If  you  only  did  that  every  night  you'd 
never  leave  New  York,  Wasn't  he  magnificent, 
though?  I  never  saw  him  do  so  well  in  my  life. 
Now,  Evelyn,  love,  don't  you  think  you've  been 
a  bit  hard  on  the  poor  boy?  He's  been  telling  me 
all  about  it.  He's  all  broke  up.  Couldn't  you  see 
that  from  his  acting?  I  feel  sorry  for  him,  honest, 
I  do.  When  you've  been  in  the  business  as  long 
as  I  have  you  won't  be  so  hard  on  the  men.    Why, 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «^       25 

they're  mere  children,  actors.  You  can't  expect  'em 
to  be  like  other  people." 

She  took  Evelyn's  hand  affectionately ;  but  Evelyn 
drew  it  away.  She  could  not  discuss  Harold  Sey- 
mour with  Mrs.  Barton,  or  with  any  one  else.  If 
he  had  asked  Mrs.  Barton  to  speak  for  him  he  had 
made  a  mistake. 

"  I  must  hurry  and  dress  if  I'm  going  to  catch 
that  train,"  she  said. 


IV. 


When  Evelyn  entered  the  dressing-room,  Madge 
Guernsey  was  smoothing  the  wrinkles  around  the 
waist  of  her  jacket. 

"  Hello !  "  she  said.    "  Is  your  party  over  ?  " 

Evelyn  sank  dejectedly  on  a  trunk  in  a  corner  of 
the  stuffy  little  room.    "  I'm  so  tired." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  be.  It's  a  good  thing 
you're  going  to  have  a  vacation.  You'd  be  down 
with  nervous  prostration  if  you  kept  on  much 
longer." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sick  of  living."  Evelyn  lifted  the 
train  of  her  white  silk  gown.  "Just  look  at  this 
dress,  will  you  ?  I  don't  see  how  it  can  seem  decent 
from  the  front." 

"  It's  wonderful  how  these  old  things  do  go, 
though,  ain't  it  ?  "  said  Madge,  deftly  depositing  her 
comb  and  brush  into  her  hand-bag,  and  closing  it 
with  a  click.  "There!  Thank  goodness,  I'm  all 
ready  to  get  out  of  here."  She  began  to  waltz  in  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

"  Don't  Madge ;  please  don't.  You'll  knock  my 
make-up  off  the  table." 

"  Say."  Madge  stopped,  holding  one  arm  at  her 
waist.  "  Did  you  know  Saunderson  was  in  front 
to-night?  Saunderson,  mind  you,  the  g-g-great 
Saunderson  ?  " 

26 


^t$^        A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^       27 

"  No,  I  didn't  know  it,"  said  Evelyn,  kicking  off 
her  white  satin  slippers. 

"  And  what  do  you  suppose  he  came  up  for  ? 
Why,  to  see  me  —  me,  America's  leading  soubrette. 
He's  going  to  engage  me  for  his  new  production, 
'  Deception,'  with  a  star  cast.  I  shall  strike  for  two 
hundred  a  week." 

"Did  he  come  round?"  Evelyn  roused  herself 
languidly  and  proceeded  to  take  off  the  glittering 
bodice. 

"  No,  he  didn't.  Wesley  won't  let  any  outsider 
come  in  by  the  stage-door,  no  matter  who  he  is. 
Wesley's  wild  with  me  because  I  wouldn't  sign  for 
next  year.  What  a  beast  that  man  is!  I'm  glad 
I  am  going  to  see  the  last  of  him  to-night.  It's  kind 
of  risky  to  hold  off ;  but  this  time  I'm  mighty  glad 
I  did  it." 

"  Sometimes  you  have  to  hold  off,"  said  Evelyn, 
removing  her  make-up  with  a  piece  of  soft  cloth. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  worry.  Any  one  that  can  act 
as  you  did  to-night's  sure  of  a  job.  Say!  Maybe 
Saunderson  will  have  something  for  you.  Wouldn't 
it  be  great  if  we  could  be  together  another  year?  " 

Madge  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  her 
bag  in  one  hand.  She  had  a  trim  figure,  bright  eyes, 
and  a  determined  mouth.  She  looked  very  pretty  in 
her  tailor-made  suit. 

"  Wish  that  feller'd  hurry  up,"  she  said,  after 
a  pause. 

"  Who?  "  Evelyn  asked,  still  rubbing  her  face. 

"  Why,  Harry,  of  course.    Who  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  You'll  have  some  one  else  next  year,  I  sup- 
pose?" 


28       «^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

"  Of  course  I  shall.  They  get  awfully  tiresome 
after  one  season." 

"  Don't  you  ever  intend  to  settle  down,  Madge?  " 

"  Now,  Evelyn !  How  often  have  I  told  you  it 
would  kill  me  to  settle  down?  Last  night  Harry 
asked  me  to  marry  him  and  go  to  his  mother's  in 
New  Jersey  for  the  summer.  How's  that  for  nerve? 
Think  of  Harry  marrying  on  twenty-five  a  week! 
He's  a  nice  fellow,  but  he  ain't  got  any  more 
talent  than  that  yellow  wig  of  yours  up  on  the 
peg  there.  I  tell  him  he  ought  to  go  back  to  his 
bank.  He  used  to  be  in  a  bank,  you  know;  he  had 
a  fine  place.  Some  of  these  fellows  are  such  idiots. 
They  leave  good  jobs  to  go  into  this  business.  It's 
no  business  for  a  man  anyway." 

"  Still,  there  must  be  men  on  the  stage,"  said 
Evelyn. 

"  Sticks,  you  mean.  They're  nearly  all  sticks,  I 
think." 

They  heard  a  light  tap  on  the  door. 

"  Ah,  there  he  is.  I  can  always  tell  his  taps. 
Have  you  noticed  how  Harry's  never  without  a 
stick  in  his  hand  and  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth? 
Actors  are  queer  things,  ain't  they  ?  "  Madge  turned 
toward  the  door.  "  Wait  a  moment,  dear.  I'll  be 
right  out." 

She  went  to  the  glass  and  surveyed  herself  as  well 
as  she  could  in  so  small  a  mirror.  "  How  am  I  ? 
All  right  ?  I  want  to  leave  the  dear  boy  with  a  good 
impression.  He's  going  to  take  me  up  to  the  hotel, 
and  then  he'll  go  down  on  the  train  to  New  York. 
Well,  darling,  I'm  going.  I'm  awfully  sorry. 
You've  been  just  lovely  all  season  long.  And  after 
all  I  went  through  with  Belle  Livingstone  last  year ! 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «9»       29 

Well,  of  all  vain  women!  Talk  about  conceited 
actresses !  I  couldn't  get  at  the  mirror  half  the  time. 
Oh,  she  was  the  meanest !  But  you've  been  awfully 
good,  and  I  shall  miss  you  dreadfully  this  summer." 

"  Good-bye,  Madge,"  Evelyn  said.  "  Write  to 
me,  won't  you?  " 

"  Of  course,  I  will." 

Madge  lifted  her  veil  from  her  mouth  and  kissed 
Evelyn  several  times.  "Oh,  you  darling!  I  just 
love  you!  You're  better  than  all  the  men  in  crea- 
tion." Tears  were  running  down  her  cheeks.  She 
turned  away  to  the  looking-glass.  "  I'm  a  perfect 
spectacle,"  she  said,  readjusting  her  veil.  "  Well, 
once  more,  dear,  good-bye." 

She  clutched  Evelyn  again  and  kissed  her  through 
the  veil.  "  Hope  you'll  have  a  lovely  summer  and 
get  a  splendid  engagement.  And  I  do  hope  old 
Saunderson  will  engage  us  both.  Let  me  know, 
anyway.  I'll  write  you  just  as  soon's  anything 
happens." 

She  was  at  the  door  by  this  time  with  her  hand 
on  the  knob.  "  Oh,"  she  said,  turning  back  and 
seizing  Evelyn  by  both  hands,  "  don't  be  mean  to 
him,  dear!  Let  him  down  easy.  Now  do,  dear! 
Promise  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

Evelyn  drew  her  hands  away.  "  Don't  be  silly, 
Madge." 

"  Oh,  I  think  you're  awftd  mean !  "  Madge  ex- 
claimed, reproachfully,  as  she  opened  the  door  and 
passed  out. 


V. 


It  took  Evelyn  only  a  short  time  to  finish  dressing 
and  to  pack  her  stage-outfit  in  her  trunk.  Long 
experiences  of  one-night  performances  in  small  towns 
had  made  her  expeditious.  When  she  reached  Mrs. 
Barton's  door,  she  could  just  distinguish  a  man's 
figure  leaning  against  a  pile  of  scenery.  She  rapped 
softly.  Then  she  opened  the  door.  There  was  no 
light  in  the  room. 

A  voice  spoke  out  of  the  darkness. 

"  Mrs.  Barton  asked  me  to  tell  you  she  couldn't 
wait.    I  told  her  I'd  look  after  you." 

Evelyn  turned  away  without  speaking,  and  with 
short  steps  she  hurried  to  the  stage-door.  Seymour, 
with  his  long,  slow  strides,  kept  close  behind  her. 

"  You  were  great  to-night,"  he  said,  when  they 
reached  the  sidewalk. 

"  Thank  you." 

They  walked  on  without  speaking.  When  they 
reached  the  station  Evelyn  observed  several  of  the 
company  sitting  together  in  the  waiting-room;  but 
she  pretended  not  to  see  them  and  took  a  seat  in  a 
comer. 

"  I  suppose  you're  off  for  Boston  to-morrow  ?  " 
said  Seymour. 

She  nodded. 

"Going  down  to  Cohasset?" 
30 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       ^       31 

"  Yes." 

"Mrs.  Appleby's?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Wish  I  was  going." 

She  looked  away  and  began  to  examine  the  fea- 
tures of  her  fellow  passengers. 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  say  something!  Abuse 
me,  if  you  like,  but  don't  freeze  me  to  death." 

"  I  didn't  ask  for  your  company,"  she  said, 
quietly. 

"Oh,  Evelyn!" 

In  spite  of  herself,  she  smiled.  "  I  don't  see  how 
you  can  blame  me." 

This  was  a  distinct  concession.    He  felt  relieved. 

"  Blame  you  ?  I  don't  blame  you.  But  you  might 
have  a  little  mercy  on  a  fellow." 

"  You  had  none  on  me." 

"  You  threw  me  over  without  giving  me  a  chance 
to  say  a  word." 

"  What  did  you  do  to  me?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  no  saint  —  I  know  that.  But  it  wasn't 
half  so  bad  as  you  thought.  Old  Hodgson  was  a 
blackmailing  scoundrel.  He  wanted  to  get  money 
out  of  me.  He  tried  to  frighten  me  with  his  suit. 
But  when  he  saw  I  wouldn't  bleed,  he  dropped  it." 

"  He  did  ?    He  did  drop  it  then  ?  " 

"  Yes.  And  you  knew  nothing  about  it.  You 
wouldn't  listen  to  a  word  I  had  to  say  for  myself." 

"  And  I  won't  listen  to  you  now.  The  whole 
thing  makes  me  sick.  Oh,  I've  seen  too  much  of 
the  stage.  The  worst  that  they  say  about  it  is 
true.  I  loathe  it,  I  despise  it.  I  wish  I  had  never 
been  inside  a  theatre." 


32       «f»       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

He  sat  back  in  his  seat  and  looked  at  her  help- 
lessly. 

"Well,   I'll  be  ,"  he  muttered,   under  his 

teeth,  without  finishing  the  exclamation. 

"  Don't  let  me  ever  hear  you  speak  of  that  matter 
again,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  don't  want  to 
hear  a  word.  You're  bad,  like  all  the  rest  of  them. 
That's  enough  for  me  to  know." 

When  they  left  the  train  he  saw  that  she  walked 
less  briskly  than  usual ;  she  was  probably  tired,  poor 
girl.  He  felt  gratified  when  she  allowed  him  to 
buy  her  elevated  railroad  ticket.  That  was  a  good 
sign.  He  thought  of  venturing  a  remark ;  but  there 
was  less  risk  in  silence.  When  at  last  she  spoke  he 
had  a  feeling  of  satisfaction;  he  was  careful,  how- 
ever, to  conceal  it. 

"  I  hope  I'm  not  taking  you  out  of  your  way," 
she  said. 

"  Oh,  no.  I'm  at  the  Gorham  House  now.  That 
isn't  far  from  Mrs.  Breen's.  I  suppose  you're  at 
Mrs.  Breen's  just  the  same?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Nice  lady.  I  used  to  be  very  fond  of  her.  Did 
she  ask  for  me?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  after  a  pause. 

"  Hope  you  told  her  I  was  well." 

His  eyes  smiled,  but  his  face  was  serious. 

"  I  said  I  didn't  know  anything  about  you." 

"  Well,  I  couldn't  have  said  that  if  anybody  had 
asked  about  you." 

"Indeed?" 

"Oh,  I've  kept  track  of  you." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  you've  been  reading  my 
press  notices." 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       ^       23 

"  No.  That  is,  I  did  read  them  at  first  —  after 
you  stopped  writing  to  me.  But  I  got  sick  of  that. 
They  didn't  tell  me  anything  I  wanted  to  hear.  I 
was  sorry  you  weren't  doing  your  best,  that  was 
all." 

"  I  was  doing  my  best,"  she  replied,  her  eyes  filling 
with  tears. 

After  a  long  silence,  he  went  on :  "  Your  season 
was  longer  than  usual  this  year,  wasn't  it?  Don't 
you  remember,  we  closed  the  first  of  May  last  year  ? 
Here  it's  nearly  the  first  of  July."  She  did  not 
reply,  and  he  resumed :  "  Do  you  remember  the 
jolly  dinner  we  had  on  the  train?  It  was  the  ten 
o'clock,  wasn't  it?  What  train  are  you  going  on 
to-morrow  ?  " 

She  hesitated  a  moment ;   then  she  said :  "  Four." 

"  It  will  be  dark  when  you  get  into  Boston." 

"  I'm  used  to  being  alone  at  night." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  can  take  a  cab,"  he  said, 
complacently. 

"  I'll  walk.  I've  become  very  economical.  I 
haven't  any  engagement  for  next  year." 

He  looked  away  for  a  moment.  Then  he  suddenly 
turned  toward  her.  "  I  say,  Evelyn,  would  you 
care  if  I  went  on  to  Boston  to-morrow,  too?  " 

"  It's  none  of  my  business  what  you  do,"  she 
replied,  tartly. 

"  H'm."  He  hesitated.  "  Well,  I've  a  good  mind 
to  go." 

The  train  had  reached  the  neighbourhood  of 
Twenty-third  Street.  It  was  past  twelve  o'clock,  but 
the  streets  were  full  of  life.  They  walked  along 
Twenty-third  Street,  past  the  Eden  Musee,  and 
across  Broadway.    Madison  Square  was  bright  with 


34       ^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *f» 

light  from  the  advertisement  in  flaming  letters  above 
the  Madison  Square  Bank  Building. 

When  they  reached  Mrs.  Breen's,  Evelyn  said: 
"  Thank  you  for  coming  down  with  me." 

"  I  say,  Evelyn,  I  should  like  immensely  to 
go  on  with  you.  I'd  give  half  my  life  to  live  those 
Cohasset  days  over  again.  I  was  very  respectable 
down  there  last  year,  wasn't  I  ?  " 

"  You  behaved  very  well,  as  I  remember,"  she 
said,  judicially. 

He  gave  one  of  his  short  laughs.  "  I  believe 
women  haven't  any  forgiveness  in  their  natures. 
The  Almighty  forgot  to  put  any  in  when  he  made 
them." 

"  He  left  it  all  in  men,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  really  must  say  good  night.     It's  very  late." 

"  Will  you  let  me  go  on  to-morrow?  " 

"  I've  already  told  you  that  I  have  no  control 
over  your  movements." 

"  Then  you  don't  mind  if  I  go?  " 

"  It  will  be  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me." 

"  Oh,  you  —  you  angel !  " 

"  Good  night,"  she  said. 

"  I  did  think  of  going  down  to  the  Branch,"  he 
went  on,  plainly  for  the  purpose  of  detaining  her. 

"What's  that?" 

"  Long  Branch,  of  course.  But  if  I  do,  I'll  spend 
a  lot  of  money,  and  I'll  whoop  it  up  all  summer." 

"  I  dare  say  Cohasset  would  be  better  for  you." 

"  Then  I'll  go  on  your  advice." 

"  I  haven't  advised  you  to  go.  For  my  part  I'd 
much  rather  not  have  you  go." 


«9»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^       35 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  put  it  on  purely  selfish  grounds. 
I'll  go  just  for  my  own  good." 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  bed,"  she  said,  unceremoni- 
ously, stepping  quickly  up  the  steps.  "  Good  night. 
Don't  come  up.    I  can  open  the  door  myself." 

"  Good  night." 

He  stood  on  the  sidewalk  looking  after  her. 
When  she  had  disappeared  in  the  house  he  sighed, 
and  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if  he  did  not  know  in 
what  direction  to  turn.  Then  he  walked  back  toward 
Broadway,  puffing  nervously  at  his  cigarette. 


VI. 


It  was  a  relief  to  Evelyn  to  be  alone  at  last. 
For  hours  she  lay  sleepless  on  her  bed.  Many  times 
she  went  over  the  events  of  the  evening,  rehearsing 
word  for  word  the  conversation  she  had  had  with 
Seymour;  hearing  again  and  again  the  remarks  he 
had  made  during  the  progress  of  the  play.  She  fell 
asleep  at  last  from  exhaustion,  and  she  did  not  wake 
till  nine  o'clock. 

After  breakfast  she  started  for  Mrs.  Freeman's 
Theatrical  Agency.  She  found  the  place  filled  with 
actors  and  actresses,  talking  and  laughing.  She 
looked  around  quickly;  she  knew  none  of  them. 
The  women,  who  were  nearly  all  young  and  pretty, 
wore  tasteful  summer  dresses,  and  most  of  the  men 
carried  sticks.  They  all  looked  prosperous,  and 
they  seemed  to  be  very  happy.  Evelyn  took  a  seat 
in  the  corner  of  the  main  room,  and  waited  for  a 
chance  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Freeman. 

There  were  three  connecting  rooms;  the  build- 
ing had  evidently  been  used  for  a  dwelling.  The 
walls  were  lined  with  photographs  of  actors  and 
actresses.  Mrs.  Freeman,  large,  fair,  and  middle- 
aged,  with  a  good-humoured  face  and  a  loud  but 
pleasant  voice,  was  talking  with  a  group  of  girls. 
They  all  wanted  engagements.  Some  of  them  re- 
lated their  experience  during  the  season  just  ended. 

36 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^       37 

Three  had  been  stranded,  and  had  had  difficulty  in 
getting  home;  four  had  been  with  companies  that 
stopped  playing  two  or  three  times  during  the 
season,  and  then  went  on  again ;  several  had  received 
only  a  part  of  their  salaries. 

"  I  told  Sexton,"  Evelyn  heard  one  of  them  say, 
"  that  if  he'd  pay  my  board  bill  at  the  hotel  in 
Tacoma,  I'd  let  the  rest  of  my  salary  go.  He  said 
he  would;  so  the  next  day  I  got  my  trunks  out 
by  the  skin  of  my  teeth,  and  then  I  skipped."  She 
added,  with  a  vague  smile,  "  I  wonder  if  he's  paid 
that  bill  yet." 

As  Mrs.  Freeman  continued  to  ignore  her  pres- 
ence, Evelyn  grew  restless.  She  looked  around  the 
room  at  the  photographs  on  the  walls.  They  were 
the  best  evidence  she  had  ever  seen  of  the  collective 
vanity  of  actors.  Suddenly  it  flashed  upon  her  why 
a  certain  French  writer,  whose  stories  she  liked, 
despised  actors.  It  was  degrading  to  use  the  body 
for  the  purpose  of  exploiting  spurious  emotions. 
She  recalled  a  remark  once  made  by  a  popular  au- 
thor :  "  Actors  seem  to  me  mere  backgrounds  of 
men."  Yes,  they  were  mere  backgrounds;  some- 
times they  seemed  to  her  to  be  only  shadows. 

Presently  a  tall,  handsome  young  man,  with  a 
smooth  face,  entered  the  room.  Even  if  she  had 
not  seen  him  before,  Evelyn  would  have  known  him 
from  his  photographs  as  one  of  the  most  success- 
ful actors  on  the  stage,  and  one  of  the  most  popular 
in  the  profession.  His  appearance  was  greeted 
with  cries  of  welcome. 

"  Why,  Harry  Davidson,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Free- 
man, seizing  his  extended  hand,  and  kissing  him 
on  the  lips.     "  When  did  you  get  in  ?  " 


38       «^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ♦ 

Several  of  the  actresses  crowded  around  him, 
laughing  and  shaking  hands.  The  men  stood  apart, 
and,  leaning  on  their  sticks,  smiled  amiably.  Every 
one  that  he  knew  he  greeted  with  extravagant 
demonstrations;  several  of  the  girls  he  kissed. 
Once  he  glanced  at  Evelyn,  as  if  he  expected  her 
to  bow  to  him;  he  probably  thought  he  knew  her; 
her  picture  must  be  somewhere  in  the  collection  on 
the  wall. 

The  sight  of  those  pictures  depressed  Evelyn. 
Many  were  yellow  with  age,  and  the  women,  in 
their  old-fashioned  gowns,  looked  like  caricatures. 
With  youth  gone,  what  pathetic  figures  actors  were ! 
Evelyn  had  heard  that  the  life  of  an  actor  was  prac- 
tically over  at  forty;  at  that  age  he  had  passed 
his  prime,  had  become  a  mere  hanger-on.  Well, 
she  had  thirteen  years  of  work  before  her ;  but  she 
should  be  dead  before  that  time ;  she  could  not  live 
through  thirteen  years  more  of  weary  travelling, 
of  smoky,  jolting  trains,  of  sleepless  nights,  of 
snatched  sandwiches. 

This  gloomy  picture  was  suddenly  dissipated  by 
the  voice  of  Mrs.  Freeman.  "  Why,  how  are  you  ?  " 
the  agent  said,  with  a  broad  smile.  "  I  didn't  know 
you  at  first.    When  did  you  come  in  ?  " 

"  About  half  an  hour  ago." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  saw  when  you  came 
into  the  room.    When  did  the  company  come  in  ?  '* 

"  We  closed  in  Yonkers  last  night." 

"  Good  business  ?  " 

Evelyn  shook  her  head. 

"  H'm !  "  said  Mrs.  Freeman.  "  There's  been  a 
lot  of  frosts  this  season.  If  things  don't  pick  up, 
I  don't  know  what's  goin'  to  happen.    Why,  at  one 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       ^       39 

time  last  winter  there  were  eight  hundred  actors 
out  of  employment  right  here  in  New  York." 

"  Well,  next  winter  I'm  afraid  I  shall  be  one 
of  them  if  I  don't  get  something  pretty  soon." 

"  Oh,  you  didn't  sign  with  Wesley  for  next  sea- 
son, did  you  ?  "  Mrs.  Freeman  ran  her  lead-pencil 
deep  into  her  hair.  "  I  remember  now.  I  got  Cora 
Reynolds  for  him.  I  have  to  keep  track  of  so  many 
companies  and  so  many  actors  that  I  get  'em  mixed 
sometimes.  What's  been  the  matter  with  you,  any- 
way?" she  suddenly  asked,  giving  Evelyn  a  sharp 
glance.  "  Your  press  notices  have  gone  off  terri- 
bly." 

"  I  haven't  been  very  well,"  said  Evelyn.  Then, 
provoked  with  herself  for  making  so  apologetic  a 
remark,  she  added,  "  I  got  sick  of  the  part." 

"  I  know  the  piece  ain't  much,  but  it  goes.  Seems 
to  me  only  the  bad  things  do  go  nowadays.  So 
you're  after  something  for  next  season.  Leads,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  I'll  take  almost  anything,"  Evelyn  replied,  des- 
perately. 

"  Oh,  it  wouldn't  do  to  work  out  of  your  line. 
Now  there's  Saunderson.  He's  looking  for  some 
people  for  his  new  play.  You  know  *  Deception,' 
by  Leonard  Thayer,  the  feller  that's  made  such  a 
hit  lately  with  his  stories.  It's  his  first  play.  They 
say  it's  great.  Saunderson  says  he  only  wants  the 
best  people." 

"  I'm  not  good  enough  for  Saunderson,"  said 
Evelyn,  wearily. 

"  It  don't  pay  to  be  too  modest  in  this  business. 
If  you  could  get  in  with  Saunderson,  you'd  be  in 
luck.     It  would  mean  New  York  all  winter.     The 


40       «^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         <^ 

piece  is  sure  to  go.  Saunderson  showed  me  the 
manuscript,  and  it  was  great  —  great !  Even  if  it 
wasn't,  the  success  of  the  book  would  make  it  draw. 
There's  a  part  there  that  would  just  fit  you." 

"Who's  he  got?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"  I  don't  believe  he's  got  any  one  yet." 

"Is  it  the  leading  part?" 

"  No,  it  ain't.  But  I  think  it's  better.  I'd  rather 
play  it  than  the  other  one.  Anyway,  it's  better  to 
have  the  second  part  in  a  good  New  York  company 
than  leads  in  a  second-rate  road  company." 

"  Who's  going  to  have  the  leading  part  ?  " 

"  Helen  Gordon.  Harry  Davidson  here's  going 
to  do  the  hero.  Saunderson  actually  got  him  away 
from  the  Metropolitan.  Saunderson  ain't  stoppin* 
at  nothin'.     Three-fifty  a  week.     Think  of  that ! " 

"  He  is  getting  good  people." 

"  It's  a  great  chance  for  Gordon.  She  ain't  ap- 
preciated in  New  York  yet.  By  the  way'"  Mrs. 
Freeman  added,  looking  vaguely  around  the  room, 
"  she  said  she  was  coming  to  see  about  it  this  morn- 
ing. She  was  tickled  to  death  to  get  it.  Well,  you 
just  leave  your  address  with  me.  I  s'pose  you're 
off  for  home,  ain't  you?  Something'll  turn  up  be- 
fore long,  an'  I'll  let  you  know." 

As  Evelyn  went  down  the  steep  flight  of  steps 
to  the  street,  she  met  a  lady,  whose  extravagantly 
ornamented  summer  dress,  together  with  the  co- 
quettish tilt  of  her  straw  hat,  at  once  revealed  a 
member  of  her  own  profession.  Evelyn  did  not 
recognise  her  till  they  had  met  face  to  face. 

"  Why,  Evelyn !  how  do  you  do  ?  I've  just  this 
minute  been  thinking  of  you.  Been  up  at  Mrs. 
Freeman's?     You've   heard   of   my   engagement, 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «f»       41 

haven't  you?  Isn't  it  splendid?  Come  back  for 
a  minute,  won't  you  ?  I'm  dying  to  have  a  talk  with 
you." 

Evelyn  did  not  wish  to  go  back  to  Mrs.  Free- 
man's ;  she  disliked  the  place,  and  she  was  averse  to 
indulging  in  theatrical  gossip  with  Helen  Grordon. 
But  a  few  moments  later  she  stood  again  among  the 
photographs.  On  seeing  Miss  Gordon,  several  of 
the  young  ladies  shrieked,  and  Evelyn  retired  to  a 
corner.  For  a  few  moments  Helen  Gordon  con- 
versed enthusiastically.  Evelyn  thought  that  that 
was  one  reason  why  she  was  so  unpopular  in  the 
profession :  she  was  too  effusively  insincere.  She 
was  very  intelligent;  her  bright  black  eyes  seemed 
fairly  to  radiate  intelligence,  and  they  made  her 
plain  features  almost  beautiful. 

Miss  Gordon  presently  returned  to  Evelyn. 
"  I'm  going  to  get  my  divorce,"  she  exclaimed, 
dropping  into  a  seat.  "  Yes,  Judge  Cowdrey,  my 
lawyer,  writes  me  that  my  case  is  so  good  there 
can't  be  any  doubt  about  it;  it's  only  a  question  of 
time.  Oh,  how  that  man  has  tried  me!  Jackson,  I 
mean.  He  didn't  want  me  to  go  on  the  stage  in 
the  first  place;  he  said  I'd  disgrace  him.  Fancy! 
Disgrace  him!  But  when  he  found  I'd  made  a  suc- 
cess, he  tried  to  get  all  my  salary.  I  was  counting 
up  the  other  day  the  money  I'd  given  him  during 
the  nine  years  I've  been  acting.  Sixty-seven  hun- 
dred and  thirty-five  dollars.  Think  of  that!  My 
hard-earned  money,  and  all  the  expense  I  was 
under!  Well,  how  are  you?  So  your  engagement 
to  Harold  Seymour's  broken !  I  was  going  to  write 
to  you,  but  you  know  how  one  feels  about  such 
things.     But  hasn't  he  been  successful  this  winter. 


42       *f»       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

though  ?  They  say  he  made  a  big  hit  in  *  Over 
Jordan.'  Well,  it's  all  in  a  lifetime,  and  it  is  life, 
it's  experience.  Oh,  I've  had  too  much  experience 
in  my  life,  I  sometimes  think;  but,  after  all,  we 
only  have  one  life  to  live,  and  I  say  let's  live  it." 
Miss  Gordon  paused,  and  looked  into  Evelyn's  eyes. 
"  Got  anything  for  next  season  ?  " 

"  Not  a  thing." 

"  Oh,  dear !  I  wish  you  were  going  to  be  with 
us.  I've  got  the  loveliest  part.  I  haven't  seen  it 
yet,  but  Mrs.  Freeman  has  told  me  about  it.  It's 
powerful.  I'll  show  them  what  I  can  do.  I  knew 
my  chance  would  come.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  tell  you 
how  that  Edwards  woman  treated  me  this  season. 
She  was  jealous  of  me,  simply  crazy.  She  cut  down 
my  part  to  the  bone.  It  was  everything  for  herself, 
and  nothing  for  the  rest  of  us.  Why,  she'd  never 
even  let  us  take  a  call.  One  night  in  Detroit  I 
got  a  call.  Of  course,  I  didn't  go  on;  I'd  been 
told  not  to.  I  stood  in  the  wings,  just  smiling  to 
myself.  But  I  was  wild!  Well,  old  Barlow  —  he 
manages  the  theatre  —  know  him  ?  —  big,  grufif 
voice  —  he  came  out,  and  he  rushed  up  to  me,  and 
he  said :  *  Why  don't  you  take  that  call  ?  '  I  said : 
*  Mrs.  Edwards  doesn't  allow  the  company  to  take 
calls,'  just  as  cool.  Then  he  swore.  It  was  awful ! 
And  he  said,  *  You  go  out  and  take  that  call.'  So 
out  I  went,  and,  oh,  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
the  reception  I  got.  But  wasn't  she  mad,  though? 
She  was  in  the  wings  when  I  came  off,  and  she 
glared  at  me  like  a  fiend.  For  three  weeks  she 
wouldn't  speak  to  me.  Just  wait  till  I  have  a  com- 
pany of  my  own,"  Miss  Grordon  concluded.  "  I'll 
know  enough  to  treat  people  decently." 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       ^       43 

Evelyn  could  scarcely  keep  from  smiling.  She 
thought  she  could  foresee  what  would  happen  if 
Miss  Gordon  did  have  a  company. 

"  She's  all  tricks,  that  woman  is.  She's  got  no 
more  talent  than  that  sign  over  there,"  Miss  Gordon 
went  on,  pointing  to  a  placard  on  the  door  that 
read,  "  All  Engagements  of  Bradley  &  Stimson  Are 
Made  through  Mrs.  Freeman."  "  Her  favourite 
trick  is  holding  the  stage  just  before  her  entrance. 
She  does  that  in  everything.  It  used  to  drive  us 
nearly  frantic.  You  know  how  awful  it  is  to  have 
to  wait  for  any  one  right  in  the  middle  of  a  scene. 
She  does  it,  of  course,  to  get  the  audience  all  worked 
up  watching  for  her,  and  then  she  bursts  out  on 
them.  Sometimes  her  waits  are  nearly  a  quarter 
of  a  minute  long.  To  us,  that  used  to  seem  a  cen- 
tury. And  then  she  would  never  allow  us  to  go 
within  ten  feet  of  the  footlights,  and  she'd  never, 
never  let  us  take  the  centre.  One  night  I  just  deter- 
mined to  pay  her  back.  You  know  that  scene  in 
'  Mary  Stuart '  between  Mary  and  Elizabeth  ?  I 
played  Elizabeth,  of  course.  It's  a  fine  chance  for 
me.  Well,  it  was  in  Detroit,  the  night  after  my 
row.  I  determined  to  clinch  the  success  I'd  made. 
So,  just  as  I  began  my  great  speech,  I  took  the 
centre.  Oh,  she  was  raving.  *  Get  back !  get  back ! ' 
she  screamed  under  her  breath.  They  must  have 
heard  her  in  front.  But  I  wouldn't  budge.  She 
was  almost  frothing  at  the  mouth  when  the  curtain 
went  down.  She  took  the  call  alone,  and  the  audi- 
ence howled  for  me.  But  I  didn't  care.  I'd  had  all 
I  wanted.     I  just  sailed  into  my  dressing-room." 

"  It  must  have  been  horrid  to  be  with  her,"  Eve- 


44       *^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

lyn  permitted  herself  to  remark,  feehng  that  she 
was  expected  to  be  sympathetic. 

"  Oh,  it  was  vile.     How  were  your  people?  " 

"  All  right,  except  Buckner." 

"  Yes,  I  once  played  with  him.  He's  a  tank. 
Wasn't  Madge  Guernsey  with  you?  She's  going 
to  have  a  part  in  *  Deception,'  I  hear.  Mrs.  Free- 
man just  told  me." 

"So  she's  got  it,  then?" 

"  As  good  as  got  it,  I  think,  from  what  Mrs. 
Freeman  said.  But  I  don't  believe  she's  engaged 
yet." 

Miss  Gordon  started  off  again  in  a  discussion  of 
various  members  of  the  theatrical  profession;  some 
of  them  Evelyn  knew  either  personally  or  by 
report,  and  others  she  had  not  even  heard  of. 
About  nearly  every  one  she  had  something  critical 
to  say,  sometimes  under  the  guise  of  praise,  how- 
ever. Evelyn  finally  became  tired,  and  explained 
she  really  must  say  good-bye. 

"  So  you're  going  to  Boston  ?  Oh,  you  live  there, 
don't  you  ?  How  I  envy  you !  They  appreciate  me 
there.  Mr.  Webb,  of  the  Argus,  has  written  the 
loveliest  things  about  me.     Know  him  ?  " 

Evelyn  shook  her  head.  "  I've  often  seen  him. 
He  has  a  house  at  Cohasset." 

"  Well,  some  newspaper  people  I  despise.  But  it 
always  pays  you  to  keep  on  the  right  side  of  them. 
Come  and  see  me  when  you  get  back,  won't  you? 
I  shall  be  at  Staten  Island  till  the  first  of  August, 
and  then  I'll  come  back  to  the  old  place  for  re- 
hearsals. You  have  the  address,  haven't  you? 
Good-bye,  dear;  I  hope  you'll  have  a  lovely  sum- 
mer." 


VII. 


In  the  afternoon,  when  Evelyn  reached  the  Grand 
Central  Station,  she  found  Harold  Seymour  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway. 

"  You  didn't  expect  to  see  me  here  so  early,  did 
you  ?  "  he  said  with  a  smile,  taking  the  bag  from 
her  hand.  "  I  remembered  your  old  trick  of  being 
an  hour  ahead  of  time." 

She  started  toward  the  ticket-office.  "  I've  got 
the  tickets,"  he  said,  and,  when  he  saw  the  look 
in  her  face,  he  laughed.  "  Oh,  I  expect  you  to 
pay  for  yours," 

They  took  seats  in  the  waiting-room. 

"  I've  got  everything,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  — "  the  box  of  Huyler's  and  the  novel. 
It's  your  favourite,  Thayer's  —  his  latest,  just  out." 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  don't  believe  I  care  for  the 
Huyler's." 

For  a  moment  his  face  dropped.  "  All  right, 
I'll  eat  it,"  he  said. 

In  spite  of  herself  she  smiled. 

"  I  know  you  hate  candy.  So  I'll  take  it  to  save 
you  the  trouble." 

"  Did  you  know  Thayer  was  going  to  have  a 
play  put  on  ?  " 

"  I've  heard  nothing  else  all  the  morning." 

"  They  offered  me  leading  business.  Saunderson 
45 


46       *f»       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *(p» 

wired  me  the  other  day.  But  I'd  signed  with  Doddy 
again.  So  Harry  Davidson  got  it.  They  say  it's  a 
great  part." 

When  they  entered  the  train,  Evelyn  found  that 
Seymour  had  secured  two  seats  on  the  shady  side. 
He  had  forgotten  nothing;  he  seemed  to  be  trying 
to  show  her  how  thoughtful  he  could  be.  Before 
the  train  started,  he  helped  to  arrange  her  head 
comfortably,  and  he  secured  a  foot-rest  for  her. 
Then  he  said : 

"  Now  you  can  devote  yourself  to  the  novel. 
Don't  mind  me.  I'm  not  going  to  bother  you.  I'm 
satisfied  just  to  sit  here  and  look  at  you." 

For  an  hour  she  read  persistently,  scarcely  realis- 
ing the  meaning  of  the  words,  however.  She  would 
have  preferred  to  look  out  of  the  window;  but  she 
feared  that  Seymour  would  consider  this  an  invita- 
tion to  talk.  Finally,  she  could  not  resist  her  desire 
to  know  what  he  was  doing.  She  peered  stealthily 
over  the  book.     He  was  asleep. 

Pie  slept  for  an  hour,  so  she  was  free  to  occupy 
herself  as  she  chose.  But  she  found  it  was  not  so 
pleasant  to  be  alone  as  she  had  supposed ;  for  being 
with  a  sleeping  companion  was  the  same  as  being 
alone.  She  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  every 
now  and  then  she  turned  to  see  if  he  gave  any  sign 
of  waking.  He  was  not  an  impressive  figure  as 
he  sat  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  arms  extended 
limply  from  the  sides  of  the  chair.  He  breathed 
lieavily,  and  she  was  afraid  he  was  going  to  snore. 
She  felt  humiliated;  of  course,  the  people  in  the 
car  thought  they  were  married.  But  she  wouldn't 
wake  him  if  she  died  for  it. 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «f»       47 

When  he  woke,  he  looked  around  sheepishly; 
then  he  flushed  and  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  must  have  been  asleep. 
I  wonder  how  long  —  " 

She  was  looking  away  again. 

He  leaned  toward  her.  "  I  say,  that  was  a  beastly 
rude  thing  of  me  to  do.  I'm  awfully  sorry."  She 
kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  window.  Then  he  whis- 
pered :   "  Did  I  —  did  I  snore?  " 

"  Yes,  you  did,"  she  replied. 

He  sank  back  in  his  seat.  Then  he  began  to 
laugh.  "  It  must  be  nearly  dinner-time,"  he  said, 
looking  at  his  watch. 

"  I'm  not  hungry." 

"  Well,  I  am.  I  haven't  had  anything  to  eat 
since  one  o'clock." 

"  Since  breakfast  ?  " 

"  Yes,  since  breakfast." 

Evelyn  gathered  her  wraps  and  placed  them  in 
her  seat.  At  the  table  she  became  more  gracious; 
before  dessert  was  reached,  she  had  even  consented 
to  laugh  at  his  jokes.  He  avoided  dangerous  topics, 
and  amused  her  with  an  account  of  his  season.  The 
New  York  girls  had  made  a  matinee  idol  of  him; 
some  of  them  had  written  him  love-letters,  whicli 
he  said  he  had  burned;  he  quoted  bits  from  them 
that  were  especially  tender,  and  had  stuck  in  his 
memory.  Of  course  he  wanted  her  to  infer  that, 
in  spite  of  all  this  adulation,  he  was  still  devoted 
to  her.  He  asked  what  her  plans  were  for  next 
season.  They  continued  on  this  amiable  basis  till 
they  reached   Boston. 

As  they  stood  in  front  of  the  South  Station,  she 


48       *^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

said,  looking  around :  "  How  small  and  contracted 
Boston  seems  after  New  York." 

"  Yes,  it's  a  quaint  little  place,"  he  replied,  pat- 
ronisingly. 

"  It's  better  than  New  York,  anyway.  New- 
York  seems  an  inhuman  city  to  me." 

He  laughed  at  the  adjective,  and  said  it  was  very 
womanish.  After  they  entered  the  street-car,  he 
grew  quiet.     He  seemed  to  be  planning  something. 

"  I'm  glad  you  let  me  come  on,"  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  so  that  the  other  passengers  should  not 
hear. 

"  I  didn't  let  you  come,"  she  replied,  quietly, 
steeling  herself  against  the  tone  of  his  voice.  "  You 
came  yourself." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  you  didn't  object." 

"  How  could  I  ?     You're  a  free  agent." 

He  smiled  and  turned  to  look  out  the  window. 
"  We're  almost  at  School  Street."  He  made  a  sign 
to  the  conductor,  and  a  few  moments  later  they 
stood  in  front  of  the  Parker  House.  Now  that  the 
time  had  come  for  leaving  him,  she  felt  a  sudden 
and  an  inexplicable  tenderness   for  him. 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  for  a  moment. 

"Good-night,  little  girl,"  he  said. 


VIII. 

The  next  morning,  though  the  air  was  thick 
with  fog,  Evelyn  decided  to  make  the  journey  to 
Cohasset  by  one  of  the  Nantasket  Beach  steamers, 
and  to  take  the  stage  from  Nantasket  to  Mrs.  Ap- 
pleby's boarding-house.  She  found  few  people  in 
the  boat.  In  the  stern  of  the  upper  deck,  where 
she  took  a  seat,  only  two  persons  were  sitting,  — 
a  woman  muffled  in  a  heavy  gray  shawl,  through  the 
folds  of  which  she  could  just  catch  a  glimpse  of 
a  yellow  face  and  restless  black  eyes,  and  a  tall, 
athletic-looking  man.  The  man  she  recognised  at 
once  as  Oswald  Webb,  one  of  the  editors  of  the 
Boston  Argus.  She  had  often  seen  him  at  Cohasset. 
His  cottage  was  on  the  top  of  the  hill  that  sloped  to 
Mrs.  Appleby's ;  it  used  to  be  pointed  out  to  stran- 
gers, and  a  sketch  of  his  history  always  went  with  it. 
He  had  been  born  in  the  West,  and  in  early  youth 
he  had  come  to  Boston  to  do  literary  work;  his 
talent  had  quickly  made  a  place  for  him,  and  he 
had  married  a  girl  of  good  Boston  family.  Of 
course,  the  Cohasset  people  had  their  gossip  about 
him ;  one  couldn't  blame  them ;  he  was  the  most 
interesting  man  in  the  place,  the  nearest  approach 
to  a  celebrity.  Evelyn,  however,  did  not  believe 
the  report  that  Oswald  Webb's  life  was  made  mis- 
erable by  the  insane  jealousy  of  his  wife.     There 

49 


50       <^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f* 

was  kindliness  in  the  face  of  the  invahd,  which 
denied  the  story.  Mrs.  Webb  could  not  have  been 
more  than  thirty-five,  but  her  thin  hair,  her  yellow 
skin,  which  clung  in  patches  to  the  cheek-bones, 
and  her  purplish  mouth,  made  her  appear  like  an  old 
woman.  Evelyn  saw  her  smile  at  something  her 
husband  had  said,  and  the  smile  was  very  sweet 
and  pathetic.  She  was  speaking  briskly;  she 
seemed  full  of  animation. 

When  the  steamer  began  to  plough  the  water 
into  foam,  and  to  turn  its  prow  in  the  direction  of 
the  lower  harbour,  Evelyn  heard  Mrs.  Webb  ex- 
claim with  delight :   "  Oh,  Oswald,  isn't  it  lovely !  " 

He  looked  into  her  face  and  smiled.  "  I  hope 
you  won't  be  sorry  for  this  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

"  How  beautiful  the  atmosphere  is,  all  silver 
mist,  with  bits  of  yellow  and  blue  in  it.  The  sun 
is  trying  hard  to  come  out,  but  I  hope  it  won't. 
I'm  glad  it  wasn't  clear.  The  boat  would  have 
been  crowded.     I  should  have  had  to  stay  inside." 

Presently  Mrs.  Webb  burst  out  again :  "  It's  ten 
years  since  I've  come  down  on  the  boat.  The  har- 
bour seems  hardly  changed.  How  good  it  is  to  see 
it  all  again.  It's  only  people  like  me  who  can't  see 
things  that  appreciate  them  when  they  do  see  them. 
Don't  you  remember  the  last  time  we  came?  We'd 
just  been  in  to  see  Doctor  Bond,  and  he'd  said  I 
was  going  to  get  well." 

Webb  bowed  his  head. 

"  But  it  wasn't  true." 

"  No  matter.  Don't  you  remember  how  it 
cheered  us  up?  There!  There's  Fort  Independ- 
ence.   Isn't  it  beautiful  ?    Everything  seems  beauti- 


«$►         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «f»       51 

ful  to  me,  everything,  Oswald.  You  can't  imagine 
how  beautiful !  " 

"  Don't  you  think  you'd  better  put  this  shawl 
over  your  head  again?  I'm  afraid  you'll  catch 
cold." 

"  Oh,  no.  I'm  perfectly  comfortable.  Just  let 
me  lean  my  head  here.    This  is  real  bliss." 

Evelyn  watched  the  invalid,  as  she  sat  drinking 
in  with  her  eyes  the  pulsating  water,  where  thou- 
sands of  jelly-fishes  were  floating  near  the  surface, 
and  the  stretches  of  land  in  the  distance. 

"  That  is  Long  Island  Light  there,  isn't  it  ?  "  Mrs. 
Webb  asked,  pointing  with  her  thin,  white  hand. 
On  one  of  the  fingers  was  a  wedding-ring,  so  large 
that  it  was  held  in  place  by  a  guard.  "  Do  you 
remember  the  picnic  we  had  there  together?  You 
wanted  to  write  something  about  it.  And  don't  you 
remember  the  funny  time  I  had  climbing  up  to  the 
top,  and  how  nervous  I  was,  and  how  we  laughed 
when  we  got  there?  Wasn't  it  a  spider  I  saw 
hanging  from  the  wall?  I  screamed  awfully,  and 
you  and  the  old  lighthouse-keeper  made  fun  of  me 
about  it  till  we  left  the  place.  I  wonder  if  he's 
there  now.  He  wouldn't  take  the  money  I  offered 
him,  and  I  felt  so  ashamed." 

As  they  passed  the  blackened  walls  of  Nixie's 
Mate,  which  seemed  like  a  miniature  house  of  death 
floating  on  the  water,  Mrs.  Webb  exclaimed: 
"  How  ghastly  that  looks  in  the  mist." 

"  It  always  looks  ghastly." 

"  Why  don't  they  blow  it  up,  or  destroy  it  in  some 
way?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  It's  a  rather  interesting 
relic." 


52       ♦      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f» 

"  Isn't  there  some  story  connected  with  it  — 
some  horrid  story?" 

"  Yes ;  a  pirate  or  a  criminal  of  some  sort  was 
hanged  there.  While  he  was  on  the  gallows,  he 
claimed  that  he  was  innocent,  and  to  prove  it,  he 
prophesied  that  the  water  would  swallow  up  the 
island.  There  was  a  good-sized  island  there  at  the 
time.  You  see,  there  isn't  any  now.  At  high  tide 
it  disappears." 

"  So  he  was  innocent." 

Webb  laughed.  "  I  suppose  we  ought  to  believe 
so.    At  any  rate,  he  was  clever." 

"  Oh,  you  think  he  knew  that  in  course  of  time 
the  water  would  wash  away  the  island." 

"  Possibly.  But  I  prefer  the  sentimental  inter- 
pretation." 

"  So  do  I.     But  it's  dreadful." 

"  At  low  tide  there's  still  a  strip  of  land  there." 

"  But  the  prophecy  is  fulfilled." 

"  Oh,  yes." 

Evelyn  turned  to  look  at  Nixie's  Mate  a  second 
time.  She  had  heard  the  story  before,  but  the  fresh 
recital  gave  it  new  interest  for  her.  Suddenly  she 
heard  a  cry.  She  looked  quickly  around,  and  saw 
that  Mrs.  Webb  had  fainted  in  her  husband's  arms. 
For  a  moment  she  was  too  startled  to  move.  Then 
she  hastened  to  the  other  side  of  the  deck,  where 
they  were  sitting.     "  Can't  I  help  you  ?  "  she  said. 

Webb,  whose  face  was  almost  as  white  as  his 
wife's,  lookal  up  quickly.  "  Open  the  cabin  door," 
he  said. 

It  was  a  sliding  door,  and  the  dampness  made 
it  stick;  but  with  an  effort  Evelyn  succeeded  in 
forcing  it  back.    Webb  lifted  the  limp  figure,  and, 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «^       53 

carrying  it  into  the  cabin,  he  placed  it  on  the  car- 
peted floor.  Then  he  drew  a  flask  from  his  pocket, 
and  held  it  to  the  white  Hps. 

Evelyn  removed  the  thick  shawl  that  the  invalid 
had  pinned  around  her,  and  passed  it  under  her 
head.     Several  of  the  passengers  began  to  gather. 

"Won't  you  please  go  away?"  said  Webb. 
"  This  young  lady  will  give  me  all  the  assistance 
I  need.  But  if  one  of  you  will  call  the  purser,  I  shall 
be  much  obliged." 

A  few  of  the  passengers  returned  to  their  seats; 
the  others  simply  fell  back  a  few  feet,  and  continued 
to  watch  the  scene. 

"  It's  nothing,"  said  Webb  to  Evelyn,  who  stood 
looking  helplessly  at  the  prostrate  figure.  "  My 
wife  often  has  these  attacks.  All  we  can  do  is  to 
wait  till  she  comes  out  of  it." 

The  purser  quickly  appeared  and  opened  one  of 
the  staterooms  near  by.  He  helped  Webb  to  carry 
the  invalid  into  the  room.  Evelyn  removed  Mrs. 
Webb's  hat,  and  arranged  her  comfortably  in 
the  berth.  Her  husband,  still  pale,  looked  on. 
"  See,"  he  said,  "  her  eyelids  are  fluttering.  She'll 
soon  be  better.  It's  wonderful  how  quickly  she 
rallies." 

For  several  moments  Mrs.  Webb  lay  perfectly 
still;  but  the  look  of  death  left  her  face.  Evelyn 
glanced  out  of  the  stateroom  window,  and  saw  that 
they  were  approaching  Hull;  the  boat  touched  at 
the  landing,  and  speedily  proceeded  in  the  direction 
of  Nantasket.  The  purser  had  brought  in  a  palm- 
leaf  fan,  and  Webb  was  sitting  by  the  side  of  the 
berth  fanning  his  wife. 


54       **»       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  more  for  Evelyn 
to  do ;  so  she  said :  "  I  think  I  will  go  now ;  but, 
if  you  want  me  again,  I  shall  be  outside." 

Webb  was  so  absorbed  that  he  did  not  hear  at 
once;  but  when  she  opened  the  door  to  go  out, 
he  replied :  "  Oh,  yes ;  oh,  yes !  Thank  you ;  thank 
you." 

Evelyn  took  a  seat  near  the  stateroom,  to  be  near 
in  case  she  should  be  wanted.  Then  she  remem- 
bered she  had  left  her  bag  near  the  seat  she  had 
taken  on  deck.  When  she  went  out  to  get  it,  she 
discovered  that  it  was  gone! 

For  a  moment  she  felt  faint.  Then  the  blood 
rushed  to  her  head  and  began  to  thump  in  her  tem- 
ples. The  bag  contained  her  pocketbook,  and  in  the 
pocketbook  were  two  hundred  dollars,  her  summer 
money.  After  looking  carefully  over  the  deck,  she 
hurried  down  to  the  office  of  the  purser,  whom  she 
found  standing  at  the  door.  In  a  few  words  she 
told  of  her  loss. 

"  Well,  you  ought  not  to  have  left  it  there,"  he 
said,  with  a  pitying  smile.  Then  he  added,  senten- 
tiously,  "  There  are  always  thieves  around." 

Evelyn  was  bewildered  by  his  coolness.  "  But 
what  shall  I  do?  There  were  two  hundred  dollars 
in  the  bag." 

"  He's  in  luck,  whoever  he  is,"  said  the  purser, 
turning  into  his  office.  Then  he  asked  carelessly, 
through  the  open  window,  "  What's  your  name  ?  " 

When  she  had  answered,  he  went  on,  "  You  see, 
since  you  left  the  bag,  we've  stopped  at  Hull,  and 
the  thief  has  probably  left  the  boat.  We  can't  ex- 
amine every  passenger  on  board,  you  know.     But 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «f»       55 

I'll  tell  you  what  we  can  do.  We  can  watch  the 
passengers  as  they  get  off  at  Nantasket,  and  see 
if  any  one  has  the  bag  in  his  hand.  But  I'm  afraid 
no  thief  would  be  crazy  enough  to  walk  off  with  it 
so  publicly  as  that." 

"  What  will  he  do,  then  ?  "  said  Evelyn,  help- 
lessly. 

"  Why,"  replied  the  purser,  with  a  laugh,  "  he'll 
simply  take  the  pocketbook,  and,  if  he  gets  a  chance, 
he'll  drop  the  bag  overboard.  He  could  easily  do 
that  from  the  lower  deck." 

"Oh!" 

"  Sometimes  they're  more  considerate,  and  leave 
what  they  don't  want  behind.  So  we  may  find  the 
bag  on  the  boat  somewhere." 

"  But  it's  the  pocketbook  I  care  most  about.  He 
can  have  the  other  things." 

The  purser  laughed  again.  "  We'll  be  at  Nan- 
tasket in  a  few  minutes,  and  perhaps  you'd  better 
stay  here  and  watch  out  for  the  bag  while  the 
people  are  leaving.     How's  your  invalid  ?  " 

At  that  moment  Evelyn  was  not  disposed  to  talk 
of  anything  but  her  pocketbook.  In  groping  about 
for  some  one  to  expend  her  misery  on,  she  felt 
tempted  to  blame  the  sick  woman  for  her  loss.  She 
sat  on  a  chair  that  the  purser  had  provided,  and 
she  indulged  her  misery.  She  still  had  one  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  in  the  bank;  but  she  had  hoped 
not  to  touch  that ;  it  was  what  she  called  her  out-of- 
engagement  money;  she  had  relied  upon  it,  if 
necessary,  to  meet  her  expenses  during  part  of  the 
winter. 

As  the  passengers  filed  slowly  out,  she  watched 


56       «^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

them  nervously.  At  the  end  of  the  procession  Mrs. 
Webb  appeared  in  her  husband's  arms;  she  was 
evidently  conscious,  for  her  eyes  opened  once. 
Webb  passed  close  by.  Evelyn  saw  him  carry  his 
wife  up  the  gang-plank  and  lift  her  into  a  carriage. 


IX. 


The  purser  had  despatched  several  of  the  deck- 
hands to  search  for  the  bag,  and  soon  after  the  pas- 
sengers had  left  the  boat  one  of  them  came  back 
with  it  in  his  hand;  he  had  found  it  behind  a  pile 
of  camp-chairs  in  the  saloon.  Evelyn  opened  it 
quickly,  and  discovered  that  ever3rthing  she  had  put 
into  it  was  there,  except  the  pocketbook.  The 
purser  himself,  who  stood  by,  promised  to  put  the 
case  in  the  hands  of  a  detective;  but  he  gave  her 
little  encouragement.  "  It  is  pretty  hard  to  catch 
those  fellows,"  he  said,  sympathetically. 

Evelyn  turned  away  with  a  miserable  feeling  of 
disappointment,  without  even  thanking  him  or  the 
man  who  had  found  the  bag.  But  when  she  reached 
the  gang-plank,  she  turned  back ;  the  man,  however, 
had  disappeared,  and  the  purser  had  gone  into  his 
office  and  closed  the  door  and  the  window. 

As  she  stepped  on  the  wharf,  she  saw  that  two 
of  the  barges  that  carried  people  up  the  Jerusalem 
Road  were  still  waiting;  but  neither  of  the  drivers 
had  been  there  the  year  before;  those  she  knew 
had  whipped  off  with  passengers.  She  approached 
the  more  respectable  looking,  and  conscientiously 
informed  him  that  she  had  lost  her  pocketbook, 
but  if  he  would  take  her  up  to  Appleby  Terrace, 
she  could  borrow  money  there  and  pay  him.     He 

57 


58       ♦       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

grinned  good-naturedly,  said  "  All  right,"  and 
opened  the  door.  Her  unhappiness  prevented  her 
from  enjoying  the  ride  up  the  road,  though  it  gave 
her  a  fine  view  of  the  beach  and  the  sea.  The  sun 
had  succeeded  in  breaking  through  the  clouds  and 
was  burning  up  the  mist,  and  she  could  hear  the 
surging  of  the  ocean  on  the  sand. 

"  Appleby  Terrace  "  was  on  the  edge  of  the  hill 
that  ran  down  to  the  beach.  It  had  a  fine  view 
of  the  sea.  In  the  distance  Minot's  Light  rose 
from  its  hidden  ledge  of  rock;  Evelyn  had  often 
seen  the  billows  dash  over  it  in  the  fierce  summer 
hurricanes.  Just  why  the  house  was  called  by  the 
name  it  bore  puzzled  those  who  did  not  know  Mrs. 
Fortescue  Appleby;  but  those  who  did  know  her 
understood  that  it  was  simply  one  of  her  vagaries. 
In  the  first  years  of  her  married  life,  she  had  passed 
a  few  months  in  England,  and  there  she  had  learned 
to  love  the  word  "  terrace  "  for  its  aristocratic  qual- 
ity. So,  when  she  took  this  cottage,  she  had  re- 
solved to  give  it  this  name,  though  there  was 
nothing  in  the  surroundings  to  make  it  appropriate. 
"  Appleby  Terrace  "  was  printed  in  large  letters  on 
a  hideous  sign  over  the  front  piazza. 

Mrs.  Appleby  herself  was  one  of  the  characters 
of  Cohasset.  Every  one  knew  her;  every  one 
laughed  at  her;  every  one  respected  her.  In  win- 
ter she  kept  a  boarding-house  for  students  in  Cam- 
bridge, and  from  this  enterprise,  as  well  as  from 
her  house  in  Cohasset,  she  had  an  income  that  sup- 
ported herself  and  her  husband  in  comfort.  It  was 
at  Cambridge,  where  her  mother  before  her  had 
kept  a  place  for  students,  that  she  had  met  For- 
tescue Appleby.    He  had  been  sent  to  Harvard  by 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       ^       59 

a  rich  uncle,  and  had  persistently  idled  through  the 
four  years  of  his  course.  At  the  end  of  this  period, 
having  received  no  degree,  he  returned  for  a  fifth 
year  of  leisure.  It  was  during  this  time  that  he 
secretly  married  the  daughter  of  the  lady  to  whom 
he  owed  several  hundred  dollars.  After  he  secured 
his  degree,  —  it  was  reported  that  the  college  had 
granted  it  to  get  rid  of  him,  —  he  calmly  announced 
his  marriage.  Then  he  continued  the  habits  of 
gentlemanly  repose  acquired  at  college. 

There  was  no  one  on  the  front  piazza  as  the  barge 
drew  up  at  the  door.  But  in  a  moment  Mrs.  Ap- 
pleby, her  portly  figure  clad  in  soiled  blue-dotted 
calico,  came  bustling  out  from  the  back  kitchen, 
where  she  spent  her  mornings.  When  she  saw 
Evelyn,  she  clapped  her  hands. 

"  Come  right  down  here  and  let  me  kiss  you." 
When  she  looked  into  Evelyn's  face,  she  exclaimed, 
"  Why,  what  in  the  world  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I've  been  robbed,"  Evelyn  replied. 

"  Robbed !  "     Mrs.  Appleby  looked  blank. 

"  Yes ;  some  one  stole  my  pocketbook  on  the 
boat.    I  haven't  any  money  to  pay  the  driver." 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  "  Mrs.  Appleby  felt  reassured. 
"  I'll  pay  him."  She  thrust  her  arm  into  the  folds 
of  her  dress.  "  How  much  was  in  the  pocket- 
book?" 

"  Two  hundred  dollars !  " 

"  Two  hundred  dollars!  "  Mrs.  Appleby  drew 
her  hand  from  her  pocket  without  producing  her 
purse. 

**  Say,  hurry  up  there,"  yelled  the  stage-driver. 

"  Oh !  "  Mrs.  Appleby  hastened  to  find  twenty- 
five  cents,  which  she  gave  to  the  man.     "  Well,  I 


6o       ^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

declare,"  she  said,  as  she  walked  back  to  the  piazza, 
"  if  that  ain't  the  most  astonishing  thing  I  ever 
heard  in  my  life." 

They  went  into  the  sitting-room,  conventionally 
furnished  with  a  piano,  some  wicker  chairs,  a  few 
little  pictures  in  oil,  and  draped  here  and  there  in  yel- 
low silk.  Evelyn  had  to  go  over  every  detail  of  her 
loss,  which,  of  course,  included  a  reference  to  Mrs. 
Webb's  illness.  It  was  annoying  to  find  that  in 
Mrs.  Appleby's  mind  the  illness  eclipsed  the  loss. 
For  several  minutes  Mrs.  Appleby  ignored  the 
pocketbook.  How  had  Mrs.  Webb  happened  to 
come  out  such  a  day  as  this  ?  How  had  she  looked 
before  she  fainted?  How  had  she  looked  after- 
ward ?  How  was  she  dressed  ?  And  did  Mr.  Webb 
really  seem  to  care?  Some  folks  believed  he  was 
just  waiting  for  her  to  die,  and  by  this  time  he 
must  be  losing  patience;  he  had  only  married  her 
for  her  money,  anyway.  And  did  he  thank  Evelyn 
for  all  she  did  ?  Mrs.  Appleby  was  sure  it  was  very 
kind  of  her.  He  said  just  that  —  just  "  Thank 
you,  thank  you?"  In  that  tone?  Well,  that  was 
strange.  He  was  usually  so  polite,  too  polite,  if 
anything;  he  went  out  of  his  way  to  be  polite. 
Yes,  he  must  have  been  excited.  Poor  man !  She 
pitied  him,  to  be  tied  to  that  sick  creature.  She 
knew  Mrs.  Webb  had  a  temper,  and  when  she  was 
in  one  of  her  jealous  fits,  there  was  no  standing  her. 
Wasn't  it  terrible?    Such  a  handsome  man,  too. 

It  was  not  till  Mrs.  Appleby  had  thoroughly 
threshed  the  subject  of  the  Webbs  that  she  con- 
sented to  return  to  Evelyn's  misfortune.  After 
adjusting  her  worldly  wisdom  to  the  matter,  she 
quickly  perceived  that  there  was  little  hope  of  re- 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^       6i 

covering  the  money.  She  only  begged  Evelyn  not 
to  let  it  spoil  her  summer,  and,  if  she  couldn't  pay 
her  board,  why,  it  would  be  all  right;  she  might 
pay  when  she  could.  Mrs.  Appleby  had  a  good 
heart,  but  her  lack  of  tact  had  often  been  deplored 
by  her  husband.  It  was  of  this  gentleman  that 
Evelyn  spoke  before  going  up  to  her  room. 

"  Oh,  he's  well,"  Mrs.  Appleby  sighed.  "  He  is 
always  well.  Why  shouldn't  he  be?  He  does  noth- 
ing to  hurt  him.  He's  in  bed  now.  You  know  he 
never  gets  up  till  one  o'clock  ?  *' 

"  Twelve,  I  thought,"  said  Evelyn,  with  a  smile. 

"  It's  been  one  for  the  last  six  months.  He  says 
as  he  grows  older  he  needs  more  sleep.  It's  been 
getting  later  and  later  every  year.  By  and  by  he 
won't  get  up  at  all." 

"Many  people  here?"  Evelyn  asked,  as  she 
started  to  go  up  the  stairs.  Mrs.  Appleby  had  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  hall. 

"  No,  it's  a  little  early.  Mrs.  Bowen's  come. 
The  Stearns  boys  will  be  down  to-morrow." 

"  Is  Mr.  Bowen  here,  too?  " 

"  No,  he's  gone  to  Europe,  on  business,  as  usual. 
She  couldn't  go.  She  was  afraid  of  the  voyage, 
poor  thing.  You  know  what  skin  and  bone  she  is. 
She  gets  seasick  coming  down  on  the  steamer." 

"  Yes,  I  know."  Then  Evelyn  added,  wearily, 
"  I  must  go  up.  Has  my  trunk  come  ?  I  hope  that 
hasn't  been  stolen,  too." 


X. 


Evelyn  was  tempted  to  indulge  in  the  luxury  of 
self-pity  and  tears,  and  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day 
in  bed;  but  if  she  were  to  go  to  bed  now,  Mrs. 
Appleby  would  discuss  her  with  the  boarders,  and 
the  next  day  she  would  be  beset  with  questions.  The 
robbery,  at  any  rate,  would  distract  their  minds  for 
a  time  from  her  broken  engagement.  She  had  a 
horror  of  their  eloquent  avoidance  of  the  topic  and 
their  searching  looks  of  sympathy.  Mrs.  Bowen 
would  speak  of  it,  she  knew;  but  Mrs.  Bowen's 
touch  was  gentle.  For  a  while  Mrs.  Appleby  would 
make  a  show  of  saying  nothing  about  tt;  then  she 
would  break  out  into  irritating  remarks. 

As  she  entered  the  dining-room,  she  perceived 
that  the  story  of  her  loss  had  preceded  her.  A  few 
ladies  were  sitting  at  one  of  the  small  tables ;  those 
that  she  knew  greeted  her  with  smiles,  and  those  that 
she  didn't  know,  stared.  Mrs.  Bowen  rose  and 
kissed  her  affectionately.  She  was  a  small,  frail 
woman,  with  a  sharp,  thin  face,  and  with  jet-black 
hair  and  eyes.  She  moved  slowly,  as  if  afraid  of 
jarring  her  body. 

"  I've  been  counting  the  days  till  you'd  come,"  she 
said.  She  pressed  Evelyn's  hand  softly.  "  I've 
asked  Mrs.  Appleby  to  give  you  this  seat,"  Mrs. 
Bowen  went  on,  smiling  and  pointing  to  the  chair 

62 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «^       63 

beside  her.  "Don't  you  remember?  We  sat  to- 
gether last  year  after  Mr.  Bowen  went  away." 
Then  she  leaned  over  and  whispered :  "  I've  heard 
all  about  the  pocketbook;  but  we'll  talk  about  that 
later." 

After  luncheon,  Mrs.  Bowen  asked  Evelyn  to 
come  into  her  room.  It  was  the  best  room  in  the 
house,  large,  with  three  windows,  two  of  which 
looked  out  on  the  ocean  and  led  to  a  porch.  Evelyn's 
room  was  on  the  top  floor  looking  out  on  the  hill; 
the  sloping  roof  made  it  unbearably  hot  in  the  after- 
noon. 

"  You  must  come  here  every  day  after  luncheon," 
said  Mrs.  Bowen,  "  just  as  you  did  last  year,  and 
in  the  morning,  too,  for  that  matter.  We  must  keep 
each  other  company." 

Her  room  was  a  reflection  of  herself,  all  sweet- 
ness, delicacy,  and  fantastic  prettiness.  Two  bird- 
cages hung  by  the  windows  that  looked  out  on  the 
sea,  and  in  each  a  yellow  canary  hopped  and  swung. 
On  all  sides  were  books :  in  the  little  oaken 
bookcase  that  she  had  brought  with  her,  on  the 
tables,  even  on  the  mantelpiece.  She  loved  books; 
but  she  only  nibbled  at  them,  like  the  canary-birds 
at  their  seed ;  long  continued  reading  made  her 
head  and  eyes  ache.  There  were  some  etchings  on 
the  walls,  and  on  the  chairs  foolish  draperies  of 
China  silk,  and  everywhere,  photographs.  Pictures 
abounded  of  a  man  of  thirty-five  with  a  determined 
face  and  laughing  eyes. 

"  It's  just  the  same,"  said  Evelyn,  looking  into 
one  of  the  big  rockers,  and  laying  her  head  upon  the 
silken  rest.  "  It  takes  me  back  to  last  summer.  I 
can    almost    imagine   that    nothing   has    happened 


64       ^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

since."  Then,  after  a  moment's  silence,  she  added : 
"  No,  I  can't." 

Then  they  opened  their  hearts  to  each  other. 
Since  the  summer  before  they  had  not  exchanged 
letters,  and  they  went  into  each  other's  history  with 
a  passionate  elaboration  of  detail.  While  Evelyn 
was  giving  Mrs.  Bowen  an  account  of  her  meet- 
ing with  Harold  Seymour  in  Yonkers,  a  servant 
entered  with  a  card  bearing  the  name  of  Mr.  Oswald 
Webb. 

Evelyn  passed  the  card  to  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"  Oh !  he  has  come  to  thank  you,  of  course.  He 
has  just  realised  how  rude  he  was  to  you  this  morn- 
ing, and  he's  come  to  apologise." 

"  But  how  could  he  know  who  I  was  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  haven't  been  on  the  stage  for  nothing. 
You  may  be  sure  that  everybody  in  Cohasset  knows 
you've  arrived." 

"  And  do  you  really  think  he's  come  about  that?  " 

"  Of  course  he  has.  What  else  do  you  suppose 
he's  come  for  ?  " 

"  I  can't  think  of  anything  else  that  would  bring 
him.  Well,  I  might  as  well  make  up  my  mind  to 
go  down,"  sighed  Evelyn. 

"  Make  up  your  mind  ?  I  wish  I  had  the  chance 
of  meeting  him." 

"  You  might  see  him  for  me.  He  didn't  notice 
what  I  looked  like." 

"  All  right.  That  will  be  lovely.  I've  always 
wanted  to  know  how  it  felt  to  be  a  great  actress." 

"  I've  wondered  about  that  myself." 

"  My  dear,  you're  too  modest." 

"  Well,  aren't  you  going  down  ?  "  said  Evelyn, 
smiling. 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «f»       65 

"  I  guess  not,"  Mrs.  Bowen  replied,  with  a  smile. 
"  I  couldn't  get  through  the  part.  I'd  break  down. 
I'd  forget  my  lines." 

"  I  can't  go  in  this  dress,"  said  Evelyn,  rising  and 
hesitating  before  the  mirror. 

Mrs.  Bowen  stood  facing  Evelyn.  "  I  tell  you 
what  I'll  do,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
"  I'll  go  down  and  tell  him  you're  coming  in  a 
minute.  I  think  I've  got  just  wit  enough  to  keep 
him  from  being  bored  till  you're  ready." 

They  parted  at  the  door,  Evelyn  hastening  up- 
stairs with  the  flowers  in  her  hand,  and  Mrs.  Bowen 
walking  slowly  down,  laughing  with  nervous  gaiety 
at  her  own  boldness. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  Evelyn  entered  the 
parlour.  She  found  Mrs.  Bowen  and  Oswald  Webb 
talking  animatedly.  Webb,  without  waiting  to  be 
introduced,  approached  her  with  long  strides  and 
offered  his  hand. 

"  I  owe  you  a  thousand  apologies,"  he  said,  beam- 
ing down  upon  her.  "  I  was  very  rude  to  you  this 
morning,  and  I  must  have  seemed  ungrateful  for 
what  you  did  for  my  poor  wife  and  myself.  I  was 
so  upset  I  didn't  think  of  thanking  you."  He 
flushed,  as  if  he  felt  that  his  speech  had  been  too 
long  and  effusive,  and  Evelyn  withdrew  her  hand, 
which  he  had  unconsciously  held. 

"  What  I  did  was  nothing,"  she  said.  "  Any  one 
would  have  done  it." 

"  We've  been  talking  about  you  ever  since  we 
got  home,"  he  said,  taking  his  seat  again.  Mrs. 
Bowen  was  smiling  deprecatingly,  as  if  she  felt 
she  ought  not  to  be  there,  but  as  she  was  there, 
she  would  try  to  be  as  amiable  and  as   silent  as 


66       «f»       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

possible.  "  Mrs.  Webb  recovers  very  quickly  from 
those  attacks." 

"  I  hope  she  doesn't  have  them  very  often,"  said 
Evelyn. 

Mrs.  Bowen's  face  assumed  a  grave  harmony  with 
the  subject. 

"  She  ought  not  to  have  come  out  to-day ;  but 
she  had  been  feeling  unusually  well,  and  we'd 
planned  to  take  the  boat  if  it  was  pleasant.  Then 
she  was  so  disappointed  when  the  weather  turned 
out  to  be  disagreeable,  that  I  let  her  come  in  spite 
of  it." 

For  a  moment  there  was  an  awkward  silence. 

"  We  had  been  talking  about  you,"  said  Webb, 
irrelevantly. 

"  Had  you,  really  ?  "  said  Evelyn,  flushing. 

Mrs.  Bowen  smiled  brightly. 

"  Yes,  we  thought  we  had  seen  you  before.  We 
felt  sure  of  it.  We  said  if  we  hadn't  seen  you,  we 
had  seen  some  one  just  like  you.  Then  after  I  told 
Mrs.  Webb  all  you'd  done  for  her,  she  was  anxious 
to  find  out  where  we'd  seen  you.  She  sees  so  few 
people,  you  know,  and  she  has  a  wonderful  memory 
for  faces." 

"  How  did  you  find  out  ?  "  asked  Evelyn. 

"  It  flashed  upon  us  just  a  little  while  ago  —  or, 
rather,  it  flashed  on  Constance,  Mrs.  Webb.  We'd 
got  ourselves  very  much  excited  over  it,  and  she  had 
given  me  a  scolding  for  being  so  rude  to  you.  I 
had  confessed  everything.  I  don't  dare  to  keep 
anything  from  her,  she's  so  sharp.  Well,  after 
she'd  told  me  that  we  must  find  out  who  you  were, 
and  I  must  come  and  apologise  to  you,  we  remem- 
bered at  last  where  we  had  seen  you." 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «^       67 

Mrs.  Bowen  laughed  gleefully,  as  if  she  knew 
what  was  coming.    "  Where  was  it  ?  "  Evelyn  asked. 

"  Mrs.  Webb  asked  me,"  he  went  on,  as  if  he 
hadn't  heard  the  question,  "  if  I  remembered  the 
night  we  had  gone  to  see  Booth  in  '  Don  Caesar.' 
Mrs.  Webb  is  devoted  to  the  theatre  and  so  am  I; 
but  we're  able  to  go  so  seldom  that  I  can  easily 
remember  everything  we  see.  Then  she  said,  '  Don't 
you  remember  that  we  both  liked  some  one  very 
much  in  the  play,  some  one  besides  Booth  himself  ?  ' 
At  that,  all  came  back  to  me." 

Mrs.  Bowen  burst  out  laughing,  and  Oswald 
Webb  sat  with  his  hands  on  his  knees  and  smiled 
into  Evelyn's  eyes.  Her  face  had  turned  scarlet. 
And  yet  in  "  Don  Caesar  de  Bazan  "  she  had  made 
the  only  real  hit  of  her  career  in  Boston. 

Mrs.  Bowen  felt  called  upon  to  speak. 

"  Miss  Johnson  didn't  like  that  part,"  she  said, 
with  one  of  her  little  smiles. 

"Really?"  Webb  turned  to  Evelyn.  "We 
thought  you  were  charming  in  it." 

"  But  the  costume,"  Mrs.  Bowen  insisted,  "  she 
objected  to  the  costume." 

"  The  costume  seemed  very  pretty  to  me,"  said 
Webb,  innocently,  "  and  very  becoming."  A  mo- 
ment later  a  curious  expression  appeared  in  his 
face,  and  he  said :   "  Oh !  " 

Both  Mrs.  Bowen  and  Evelyn  broke  out  into 
laughter. 

"  But  one  doesn't  mind  on  the  stage,"  Webb  said, 
speaking  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  spectator. 
"  I  mean,"  he  explained,  in  confusion,  "  that  in  such 
a  play  and  such  a  part  the  audience  never  think  — 


68       *f»       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

never  think  of  the  —  "  He  stopped  helplessly,  and 
Mrs.  Bowen  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Never  think  of  the  person  playing  it.  I'm 
sure  Mr.  Webb  is  quite  right,  dear.  Besides,  it  was 
a  boy's  part,  you  know." 

Webb  gave  her  a  grateful  look.  "  That's  what 
I  —  what  I  tried  to  say,"  he  stammered. 

Mrs.  Bowen,  who  began  to  wonder  what  would 
have  happened  if  she  had  not  come  down,  proceeded 
to  assert  herself. 

"  It  was  a  great  compliment  for  you  and  Mrs. 
Webb  to  remember  Miss  Johnson,  I  think,"  she  said, 
in  her  half-whisper,  "  and  when  Booth  was  playing, 
too." 

"  Oh,  we've  often  talked  about  it  since,  Mrs. 
Webb  and  I.  You  see,  we  never  forgot  Miss  John- 
son's face.  We've  often  wondered  who  you  were  and 
where  you  came  from  and  where  you  had  gone, 
and  all  that.  But  we  thought  you  must  be  very 
much  younger  —  a  mere  child,"  he  added,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  We're  all  young  when  we're  on  the  stage,"  said 
Evelyn. 

"  Isn't  it  lovely?  It  seems  like  fairyland  to  me," 
said  Mrs.  Bowen. 

Evelyn  wished  that  they  would  change  the  subject. 
Such  talk  might  please  a  successful  actress,  sure  of 
her  talent,  but  it  only  made  her  uncomfortable. 
There  was  no  suggestion  of  fairyland  in  being  out 
of  an  engagement.  Mrs.  Bowen,  with  her  tact, 
led  the  subject  into  another  channel. 

"  Mrs.  Webb  must  have  a  wonderful  memory," 
she  said,  referring  back  to  Webb's  allusion. 

"  It  is,  it  is  wonderful,  really  wonderful ! "  he 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       *^       69 

replied,  delighted  at  being  provided  with  a  topic. 
"  Invalids  sometimes  do  have  exceedingly  keen 
minds.  You  see,  they  think  so  much ;  that's  what  is 
the  matter  with  so  many  of  them.  In  fact,  that's 
what's  the  matter  with  my  wife,  with  Mrs.  Webb. 
She  can't  rest ;  her  brain  is  always  working."  An- 
other awkward  pause  followed.  "  You  will  come 
and  see  Mrs.  Webb,  won't  you  ?  "  he  said,  abruptly, 
turning  first  to  Evelyn,  and  then  vaguely  including 
Mrs.  Bowen  in  his  glance. 

Evelyn  looked  a  little  startled;  but  she  said  she 
should  be  delighted.     Mrs.  Bowen  just  smiled. 

"  We  don't  see  many  people.  We  have  to  be 
quiet.  Mrs.  Webb  can't  bear  much  talk.  But  she 
takes  fancies.  She  has  taken  a  fancy  to  you,  I 
think." 

"  That  is  very  kind  of  her,"  said  Evelyn,  with  a 
little  smile  and  blush. 

"  She  has  been  weaving  romances  about  you  all 
the  afternoon.  She  has  a  wonderful  imagination.  I 
must  warn  you,  if  you  come,  she'll  find  out  all  your 
secrets.  She'll  be  awfully  disappointed  if  you 
haven't  a  romance  in  your  life.  She  says  she  knows 
you  have  had  a  great  many." 

"  You  must  make  up  some,  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Bowen. 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  do.  Of  course  she  finds  it 
out  —  she  always  does.  She  says  I  tell  her  my 
novels  instead  of  writing  them." 

"  I  have  read  those  you  have  written,"  said  Mrs. 
Bowen,  eagerly.     "  I  think  they're  lovely !  " 

"Oh,  do  you  like  them?"  he  asked,  as  if  this 
were  the  first  time  he  had  ever  heard  them  praised. 
"  I'm  very  glad.    It  seems  so  far  away  now  —  since 


yo       *f»       A  Daughter  of.Thespis         «^ 

I  wrote  them.  I  feel  as  if  I  hadn't  written  them  at 
all,  as  if  some  one  else  had  written  them.  I  was 
very  young  then.  Sometimes  I  think  I  couldn't  do 
it  now.  I'm  sure  I  couldn't  do  anything  just  like 
them." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  you  could  do  something  even 
better,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen.  "  You've  had  so  much 
more  experience." 

Evelyn  was  almost  shocked  at  the  familiarity  of 
Mrs.  Bowen's  manner.  But  it  seemed  to  please 
Webb. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I've  had  experience  enough. 
I've  been  living  a  novel.  Sometimes  that  is  much 
harder  than  writing  one." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  thought  of  that.  I  have  thought 
of  that,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen.  "  We're  all  novels,  every 
one  of  us.    Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes.  If  we  were  put  into  a  story  just  as  we 
are,  they  would  make  most  interesting  books." 

"  Only  people  would  say  they  weren't  natural," 
whispered  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "  How  well  you 
understand  it!    Do  you  write?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  replied,  flushing  with  delight  and 
embarrassment.  "  I  only  appreciate.  There  must 
be  some  to  appreciate.  And  I  observe  and  think, 
that's  all." 

"  That  is  a  great  deal,"  said  Webb.    "  Few  do  it." 

"  Ah,  but  if  I  could  write,  sometimes  I  think  I 
should  have  things  to  say." 

"  It's  largely  a  matter  of  habit  —  writing,"  he 
said,  carelessly. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Do  you  think  it  can  be 
acquired  —  such  a  gift  ?  " 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «^       71 

"  Of  course  the  germ  must  be  there  —  the  intelli- 
gence and  some  faculty  for  expressing  one's  self. 
They  can  be  developed  by  practice." 

"  My  husband  says  I  write  beautiful  letters,"  said 
Mrs.  Bowen. 

"  Letter- writing  is  a  gift,  too."  Webb  seemed 
bored.  Evelyn  suspected  that  he  wished  to  get 
away  from  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Bowen's  embryonic 
genius. 

"  But  you  will  write,  you  will  write  more,  won't 
you?  "  Mrs.  Bowen  asked. 

"  Oh,  perhaps,  if  I  feel  the  impulse.  But  I  have 
no  spur.  One  needs  a  sharp  spur.  It's  hard  to 
buckle  down  to  writing;  the  concentration  is  so 
great.  Besides,  as  I  grow  older  I  feel  a  self-con- 
sciousness, a  self-distrust  that  keeps  me  back.  I 
doubt  if  I  could  now." 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't  let  this  feeling  come  over  you," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Bowen.  "  I  know  what  it  is ;  I 
have  felt  it.  Once  I  fought  against  it ;  but  I  couldn't 
keep  it  up.  You  must  fight  always ;  it's  so  insidious. 
It's  like  paralysis." 

Evelyn  wondered  if  her  friend  had  taken  leave  of 
her  senses. 

For  a  moment  Webb  looked  surprised.  "  You  are 
right,"  he  said.  Then,  after  a  pause,  he  went  on: 
"  I  suppose  every  one  has  to  struggle  against  it. 
It's  those  who  struggle  hardest  and  longest  that 
succeed." 

"  Yes,  it's  keeping  it  up ;  it's  keeping  it  up,"  mur- 
mured Mrs.  Bowen. 

Webb's  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  She  seemed  flus- 
tered. "  You  will  come,  too,  won't  you  ?  "  he  asked. 
She  made  a  polite  acknowledgment  of  the  invita- 


72       <^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

tion.  "  I'm  sure  Mrs.  Webb  will  like  you,"  he 
added.  He  sat  for  a  few  moments  looking  absently 
out  of  the  window.  "  Will  you  come  to-morrow  ?  " 
he  asked,  turning  to  both  of  them. 

Mrs.  Bowen  made  a  little  gesture,  and  exchanged 
glances  with  Evelyn. 

"  She's  very  impatient.  Invalids  are  apt  to  be, 
don't  you  think  so?  She  wanted  Miss  Johnson 
to-day;  she  asked  me  to  bring  her  back,  but  I 
told  her  it  would  be  impossible,  and  I  promised  to 
do  my  best  to  have  her  come  to-morrow.  You  will 
both  come,  won't  you  ?  "  He  rose  from  his  seat  and 
looked  at  them  as  if  he  were  asking  a  great  favour; 
then  he  offered  his  hand  to  Mrs.  Bowen  and  to  Eve- 
lyn. "  You  won't  forget  ?  "  he  said,  turning  at  the 
door.  "  And  will  you  come  early  ?  We  don't  have 
many  visitors.     It  will  be  an  event  for  us." 

As  the  front  door  closed  behind  him,  Mrs.  Bowen 
turned  to  Evelyn,  and,  clasping  her  hands,  she  cried : 
**  Isn't  he  just  perfect?  " 


XI. 

In  the  evening  Evelyn  spent  a  brief  time  with 
the  other  boarders  in  the  sitting-room.  The  summer 
before  she  had  amused  them  by  playing  and  singing ; 
she  had  a  pretty  voice,  a  light  soprano,  just  strong 
enough  to  enable  her  to  sing  on  the  stage  when 
her  part  required  singing.  Mr.  Appleby  appeared 
for  a  few  moments ;  he  never  ate  and  rarely  mingled 
with  the  boarders;  but  he  had  an  admiration  for 
Evelyn,  which  he  occasionally  showed  by  delicate 
attentions.  His  life  was  solitary;  he  had  no  inti- 
mates. Every  Sunday  afternoon  at  four  o'clock  Mrs. 
Appleby,  dressed  in  black  silk  and  white  lace,  with  an 
enormous  cameo  at  her  throat,  would  go  with  him  for 
a  walk  along  Nantasket  Beach ;  she  still  took  a  pride 
in  him,  and  she  liked  to  be  seen  in  public  with  him. 
Indeed,  she  was  the  only  companion  that  ever  was 
seen  with  him  outside  her  own  house.  There  was 
a  mystery  about  him  that  often  piqued  the  curiosity 
of  the  boarders,  especially  the  younger  and  the  more 
irreverent ;  they  wondered  what  he  did  with  himself 
during  his  prolonged  disappearances. 

This  evening  Appleby  asked  Evelyn  about  her 
season,  if  she  had  enjoyed  it,  if  the  old  part  had  not 
grown  tiresome,  and  other  questions  showing  a 
friendly  interest.  Then,  noticing  the  copy  of 
"  Deception  "  in  her  hand,  he  spoke  of  the  play 

73 


74      ♦      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         -#» 

Leonard  Thayer  was  to  produce.  He  had  a  great 
admiration  for  Thayer.  While  at  Harvard  Thayer 
had  boarded  for  a  few  months  at  Mrs.  Appleby's. 
Even  then  he  had  given  signs  of  uncommon  ability ; 
Mr.  Appleby  deplored  the  tone  of  his  later  books; 
there  was  a  hardness  in  them  that  he  did  not  like, 
as  if  Thayer  were  becoming  a  bit  cynical.  In  his 
early  youth  —  it  was  nearly  ten  years  since  he  had 
left  college  —  he  had  been  singularly  optimistic  and 
genial.  Mr.  Appleby  was  not  surprised  that  Thayer 
was  turning  his  attention  to  the  stage;  he  had 
always  been  fond  of  the  theatre.  It  was  a  pity  that 
more  literary  men  didn't  try  dramatic  work,  that  is, 
the  men  of  real  talent;  in  the  old  days  literature 
and  play-writing  had  seemed  to  go  hand  in  hand; 
indeed,  play-writing  had  been  in  several  periods, 
notably  in  the  classical  times,  the  chief  form  of 
literature;  but  now  the  two  were  cut  off  from  each 
other;  what  was  good  literature  often  made  a  bad 
play,  and  a  good  play  was  often  made  bad  literature; 
there  certainly  must  be  something  false  in  our  taste. 
Mr.  Appleby  uttered  these  sentiments  with  a  charm- 
ing naivete;  his  manner  was  the  refinement  of  sim- 
plicity; he  never  dogmatised;  at  times  he  went  so 
far  as  to  seem  to  deprecate  his  own  arguments ;  one 
could  not  imagine  him  in  the  heat  of  discussion; 
he  would  always  have  the  air  of  trying  to  help  his 
opponent  out.  Occasionally,  as  he  talked,  he  would 
smile  faintly,  showing  an  upper  row  of  gleaming 
false  teeth.  He  rarely  gesticulated,  and  then  from 
the  right  wrist  only,  which  gave  play  to  a  white  hand 
with  long,  tapering  fingers. 

In  the  midst  of  the  talk  Mrs.  Appleby  appeared, 
panting  from  her  climb  up  the  hill.     She  wore  her 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «^       75 

faded  blue  calico,  half-covered  with  a  gray  shawl; 
on  her  head  rested  a  man's  yachting  cap,  the  prop- 
erty of  a  former  boarder,  which  had  been  left  the 
year  before  on  the  rack  in  the  hall.  Her  appearance 
was  uncompromisingly  Amazonian,  and  her  husband 
fled  before  it. 

"  Same  as  ever,  ain't  he?  "  she  said,  nodding  her 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  retreating  patent- 
leathers. 

"  He  hasn't  changed,"  Evelyn  acknowledged. 

"  Well,  if  he  ain't  the  greatest! "  Mrs.  Appleby 
sank  into  a  chair  without  removing  the  cap  or  the 
shawl.  "  I've  never  seen  any  one  like  him,  and 
I  never  expect  to  see  another!  He's  delighted  be- 
cause you've  come.  He  says  you  and  Mrs.  Bowen 
are  the  only  intelligent  people  in  the  house." 

Mrs.  Appleby  broke  into  a  loud  laugh. 

"  I  don't  wonder  he  likes  Mrs.  Bowen,"  said 
Evelyn.     "  Everybody  does." 

"  Oh,  she's  nice  enough.  But  she  thinks  more  of 
a  dollar  than  you  or  I  do  of  a  dime."  Mrs.  Appleby 
took  ofif  her  cap  and  began  to  fan  herself  with  it. 
"Ain't  it  hot?" 

"  I  don't  feel  it." 

"  Oh,  you  thin  folks  never  do." 

Mrs.  Appleby  rose  and  swept  out  of  the  room; 
she  was  so  restless  that  she  never  could  remain  long 
in  the  same  place.  Evelyn  sat  for  a  few  minutes  at 
the  piano  where  she  had  been  playing.  Mrs.  Bowen, 
who  always  went  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock,  had  dis- 
appeared, and  the  other  boarders  were  in  their  rooms 
or  out  walking.  There  was  an  oppressive  silence 
over  the  place;  from  the  beach  could  be  heard  the 
mournful  surging  of  the  waves.     Evelyn  sat  for 


76       ^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *#» 

a  long  time  with  one  hand  on  the  keyboard.  She 
wondered  what  was  going  to  happen.  She  had 
thought  everything  was  over  between  Harold  Sey- 
mour and  herself ;  now  he  had  forced  himself  in  her 
way  again.  Why  could  he  not  have  left  her  in 
peace  ?  But  she  knew  that  she  was  trying  to  deceive 
herself  again.  Without  him  there  could  be  no  possi- 
ble happiness  —  only  the  horrible  monotony  of  the 
past  six  months. 

She  thought  she  heard  a  quick  step  on  the  gravel 
path  that  led  from  the  Jerusalem  Road  to  the  porch. 
She  listened,  and  then  had  a  sickly  feeling  of  dis- 
appointment. Yes,  there  it  was  again;  some  one 
was  coming  toward  the  house.  She  sat  up  quickly 
and  began  to  play.  She  heard  the  footsteps  pass 
from  the  walk  to  the  piazza  and  stop  beside  the 
window.    Then  she  saw  Harold  Seymour's  shadow. 

When  she  finished  playing  there  was  silence  for  a 
moment,  and  she  rested  her  fingers  on  the  key- 
board. She  heard  a  light  tap  on  the  window.  She 
did  not  move.  Another  tap  followed,  louder  than 
the  first,  then  another  and  another.  She  went  to 
the  window,  pulled  down  the  shade,  which  thereupon 
sprang  out  of  her  hand  and  up  to  the  roller,  and 
she  saw  Seymour  smiling  before  her.  She  looked 
at  him  for  a  moment ;  then  she  said :  "  Good  even- 
ing." 

"  Won't  you  open  the  window  ?  I  want  to  speak 
to  you." 

"  The  front  door  is  unlocked." 

He  turned  away  with  a  laugh  and  came  in  by 
the  door.  "  You're  not  very  romantic,"  he  said, 
offering  his  hand. 

"  What  has  brought  you  ?  "  she  asked. 


♦?»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       ^       77 

"  You  aren't  giving  me  a  very  warm  w^elcome," 
he  repHed,  with  a  smile.  "  Especially  as  I  have 
come  on  a  purely  philanthropic  errand." 

"Indeed?" 

"  Yes.  But  first  tell  me  how  you  are,  won't 
you?" 

"  I  am  well." 

"All  alone?" 

"  Yes." 

He  looked  at  her  admiringly.  "  Those  flowers 
are  very  pretty.  And  that  pretty  blue  gown.  You 
used  to  wear  it  last  year.  Have  you  been  having 
a  reception  ?  "  he  asked,  jokingly.  Then  he  added : 
"  I  really  have  come  down  for  something." 

"Indeed?" 

"  I  mean  for  something  besides  just  seeing  you. 
I  wanted  to  do  that  bad  enough,  but  I  didn't  dare 
till  —  " 

"  Well  —  " 

"  Till  I  found  the  excuse  —  that's  all." 

"Oh!" 

"  I've  heard  about  —  about  that  Webb  woman  and 
how  you  happened  to  lose  your  pocketbook." 

"  How  did  you  hear  ?  " 

"  Saw  it  in  the  evening  paper,  of  course." 

Her  face  became  scarlet.  She  was  thinking  of 
Oswald  Webb.  He  would  see  the  paper,  too.  Per- 
haps he  had  seen  it  already. 

"  Did  it  say  much  ?  " 

"  No.  Just  a  paragraph.  Nice  little  advertise- 
ment for  you." 

She  turned  away  impatiently. 

"  Excuse  me.      I   said  that  just  because  I   felt 


7  8       ^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *^ 

foolish.  I'm  sorry  it  happened.  I  came  to  tell 
you  that." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  I  suppose  you'd  be  insulted  if  I  offered  to  lend 
you  money." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  before  she  could  reply 
he  went  on  :  "  Oh,  I  haven't  offered,  you  know." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  come  down,"  she 
said,  qjiietly. 

"  Now  you  make  me  glad  I  came." 

"And  I  —  I  don't  need  the  money.  That  is, 
I  have  enough  for  the  present." 

She  turned  her  head  away  to  hide  her  tears. 

"  Then  it's  all  right,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "  Be- 
sides, you  may  get  the  money  back.  I'll  speak  to 
my  friend  Captain  McManus  about  it.  He's  one  of 
the  best  detectives  in  Boston." 

"  Oh,  I  know  I'll  never  get  it  back,"  she  broke 
out.    "  It's  just  my  luck." 

"  I  wouldn't  feel  so  sure  about  that,"  he  said, 
gently. 

He  picked  up  his  hat  which  had  fallen  from  the 
table  to  the  floor  and  started  for  the  front  porch. 
She  followed  and  they  stood  together  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

"  It  feels  like  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  here, 
doesn't  it?  It's  just  the  place  for  me  after  my  life 
in  New  York." 

She  did  not  reply. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said. 

"  Good-bye."    She  offered  him  her  hand. 

He  held  her  hand  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
dropped  it  quickly,  and  plunged  down  the  path. 


XII. 


The  next  day  Mrs.  Bowen,  who  was  usually  sub- 
dued, showed  considerable  agitation  at  the  prospect 
of  her  call  on  Mrs.  Webb.  If  the  weather  con- 
tinued pleasant  —  it  looked  a  little  like  rain  —  she 
would  wear  her  yellow  and  white  organdie.  If  it 
clouded,  she  would  put  on  her  fawn-coloured  cloth. 
That  always  looked  well.  And  what  would  Evelyn 
wear  ?  Her  blue  again  ?  Oh,  no,  that  simple  white 
muslin  with  the  little  purple  flowers  in  it  would 
be  ever  so  much  more  fetching.  It  wasn't  a  bit 
theatrical  —  and  it  would  be  sure  to  please  Mrs. 
Webb,  and  take  her  husband's  eye,  too.  She  hoped 
he  would  talk  more  about  literature  and  about  the 
drama.  Perhaps  he  would  tell  them  how  he  hap- 
pened to  take  up  writing ;  she  felt  so  encouraged  by 
what  he  had  said  about  the  possibility  of  developing 
talent;  she  intended  to  try  and  see  if  she  couldn't 
do  something,  perhaps  a  story  in  the  form  of  letters ; 
that  would  suit  her  best ;  of  course  she  would  begin 
on  small  things  first,  and  then,  perhaps,  she  would 
undertake  a  novel.  So  many  women  had  succeeded 
in  novel-writing  lately. 

"  If  I  do  write  and  get  my  things  published,  I  shall 
sign  my  own  name,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen.  "  I  sha'n't 
sail  under  false  pretences." 

Occasionally  they  would  turn  from  the  Webbs  to 

79 


8o       «^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *9^ 

the  subject  of  the  lost  pocketbook.  Evelyn  had 
written  a  full  description  of  it  for  the  steamboat 
company.  But  what  could  the  company  do?  Her 
only  hope  lay  in  the  detective  Mr.  Seymour  had 
spoken  of. 

Before  luncheon  Mrs.  Bowen  dressed  for  the  call, 
and  at  t^ie  table  she  was  in  a  little  flutter  of  excite- 
ment. "  Not  ready  to  go  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  look 
of  disappointment  when  she  found  Evelyn  wearing 
the  same  gown  that  she  had  worn  all  the  morning. 

"  No,"  Evelyn  replied,  "  I  thought  I'd  dress  after 
luncheon.     There's  plenty  of  time." 

When  they  were  ready  to  start,  Mrs.  Bowen  ex- 
claimed: "  Isn't  it  exciting?"  The  cottage  of  the 
Webbs  was  situated  at  some  distance  from  Appleby 
Terrace.  As  the  day  had  grown  warm,  the  two 
ladies,  poorly  protected  by  their  thin  but  picturesque 
parasols,  walked  very  slowly.  But  when  they  ap- 
proached the  house  they  were  thoroughly  tired  and 
out  of  breath.  The  house,  though  there  were  no 
trees  around  it,  looked  cool,  perhaps  on  account 
of  the  dark  wood  of  which  it  was  built.  The  win- 
dows were  protected  with  heavy  awnings. 

"Isn't  it  lovely?"  cried  Mrs.  Bowen,  enthusias- 
tically. "  And  to  think  that  poor  woman  can't 
enjoy  it !  " 

"  Oh,  she  probably  does  enjoy  it,"  Evelyn  replied, 
panting. 

"  I  wonder  if  she'll  be  under  the  influence  of 
chloral  this  afternoon." 

"  I  hope  not." 

"  She'll  probably  be  very  stupid  if  she  isn't." 

Mrs.  Bowen's  exercise  seemed  to  have  the  effect  of 


A  Daughter  of  Thespis 


quickening  her  faculties,  for  she  was  unusually 
decided  in  her  manner  and  speech. 

"  She  must  have  been  under  the  influence  of  the 
chloral  yesterday,"  she  went  on,  clinging  desperately 
to  her  skirts  with  her  right  hand  and  gasping  for 
breath  as  she  mounted  the  top  of  the  hill. 

"  What  makes  you  think  so?  " 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember  how  you  described 
her  eyes?  Those  were  regular  chloral  eyes.  Oh, 
I'm  so  tired." 

"  They  were  very  bright." 

"  I  thought  of  that  when  you  told  me  about  them ; 
but  I  didn't  like  to  speak  of  it." 

They  were  at  the  foot  of  the  broad  flight  of  steps 
that  led  to  the  front  door.  "  You  ring,  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Bowen,  with  a  little  tremor  in  her  voice. 

Evelyn  pressed  the  electric  bell.  In  a  moment  a 
white-capped  servant  appeared  before  them.  When 
Mrs.  Bowen  asked  for  Mrs.  Webb  the  woman 
seemed  confused. 

"  She  —  she  ain't  been  well  this  momin',  ma'am. 
She's  had  one  of  her  bad  spells." 

"  Perhaps  we'd  better  leave  cards  and  go  away," 
said  Evelyn. 

Mrs.  Bowen  hesitated;  a  look  of  disappointment 
appeared  in  her  face.  She  began,  however,  to  finger 
in  her  card-case.    Then  the  servant  said : 

"  Well,  p'raps  ye'd  better  come  in.  I'll  go  'n* 
ask  Mr.  Webb  if  she's  able  to  come  down." 

A  gleam  of  hope  appeared  in  Mrs.  Bowen's  face, 
and  she  entered  the  broad  hall,  followed  by  Evelyn. 
The  heavy  door  closed  quietly  behind  them.  They 
found  themselves  in  a  cool  atmosphere,  wonderfully 
refreshing-  after  their  walk. 


82       «^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

"  Will  you  come  inter  the  lib'ry  ?  "  said  the  maid, 
leading  the  way  across  the  tile-floor  to  one  of  the 
several  rooms  that  led  from  the  hall. 

It  was  a  large  semicircular  room  lined  with  low 
mahogany  bookcases,  and  upholstered  in  dark 
leather.  The  walls  were  covered  with  dull  red  car- 
tridge-paper, and  with  a  few  etchings  and  portraits 
of  literary  celebrities.  Upon  the  bookcases  stood 
some  classic  heads  in  marble.  On  both  Evelyn  and 
Mrs.  Bowen  had  fallen  that  subdued  silence  which 
comes  to  those  who  enter  for  the  first  time  a  strange 
and  impressive  place.  Mrs.  Bowen,  whose  emotions, 
being  largely  on  the  surface,  were  always  seeking 
expression,  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Isn't  it  just  what  you'd  expect  ?  "  she  whispered. 
"  I  should  like  to  spend  my  whole  life  right  here, 
right  here  in  this  room  —  with  these  books  and  all 
these  lovely  things.  I  don't  see  how  any  one  could 
help  writing  here,"  she  added,  as  she  glanced  at 
the  big  table  near  one  of  the  windows.  "  I  suppose 
he  writes  his  novels  there.    Isn't  it  wonderful  ?  " 

"  He  doesn't  write  novels  any  more,"  said  Evelyn. 
"  He  hasn't  written  one  for  years  and  years." 

"  What  a  shame !  I  should  think  his  wife  would 
make  him.  I'd  make  my  husband  write  if  he  had 
the  talent.  I'd  lock  him  up.  But  I  suppose  she's 
too  delicate." 

Evelyn  smiled.  "  Do  you  think  an  author  could 
do  anything  like  that  —  under  compulsion  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  he  would.  These  geniuses  have  to 
be  forced  to  work.  I've  always  heard  they  were 
awfully  lazy.  They  can't  realise  what  treasures  are 
in  their  brains  waiting  to  come  out.     That's  what 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «f»       83 

their  wives  are  for  —  to  make  them  work.  It  must 
be  grand  to  be  the  wife  of  a  genius." 

"  I've  read  that  it  isn't.  Think  of  Carlyle  and 
his  wife." 

"  Oh,  but  she  was  a  genius,  too.  The  wife  of  a 
genius  never  ought  to  be  a  genius  herself.  She 
ought  to  be  very  practical." 

"  I  once  knew  a  woman  whose  husband  was  a 
genius,  or  rather  she  thought  he  was,"  Evelyn  said, 
with  a  faintly  satirical  smile.  "  She  used  to  tell  me 
it  depressed  her  awfully  at  times." 

"  Depressed  her !  How  ridiculous !  Why  did 
it  depress  her  ?  " 

"  Because  she  couldn't  do  anything  herself.  She 
was  always  wanting  to  be  something,  but  she 
couldn't.  She  said  his  genius  made  her  seem  mean 
and  small." 

"How  selfish!" 

"  She  wasn't,"  said  Evelyn,  absently.  At  times, 
Mrs.  Bowen's  philosophy  did  not  interest  her. 
"  She  was  always  making  sacrifices  for  him." 

"  Now,  I  should  be  proud  if  my  husband  were  a 
genius.  I'd  just  slave  for  him,  and  I'd  make  him 
work  and  work  and  work.  And  then  I'd  be  praised 
in  his  biography.  People  would  say  it  was  all  due 
to  me." 

They  heard  voices  from  up-stairs.  Instinctively 
they  both  listened.  The  peevish  talk  of  a  woman  was 
followed  by  a  deep  murmur  that  sounded  like  a 
man's  voice  speaking  in  protest.  Then  the  shrill 
tones  asserted  themselves  again. 

"  Now  you  needn't  try  to  stop  me.  I've  made  up 
my  mind." 

The    low    protesting    murmur    followed    again. 


84       *^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

Mrs.  Bowen  and  Evelyn  exchanged  glances  of  con- 
sternation. 

"  Stop,  Oswald,"  the  shrill  voice  resumed.  "  Don't 
you  think  I'm  old  enough  to  know  my  own  mind? 
I'm  ever  so  much  better,  and  I  shall  feel  all  right 
just  as  soon  as  I  take  my  medicine.  Do  you  intend 
to  give  me  that  medicine?  " 

Mrs.  Bowen  looked  at  Evelyn  with  a  gleam  in 
her  eyes  that  said,  "  I  told  you  so !  "  Both  were 
frightened. 

"  I'm  sorry  we  came,"  whispered  Evelyn.  "  I 
wish  we  could  steal  out  by  the  front  door." 

"  Now  that  we  are  here  we  must  stay,"  said  Mrs. 
Bowen,  with  a  secret  joy  over  the  possibilities  of  the 
situation.  She  would  fairly  revel  in  writing  an 
account  of  it  to  her  husband. 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments.  The  vis- 
itors tacitly  agreed  not  to  speak.  Finally  the  sharp 
voice  shot  down  the  stairs  this  command : 

"  Mrs.  Bell,  please  bring  me  a  glass." 

Then  followed  a  low  hum  of  voices;  several 
persons  seemed  to  be  talking  at  once.  Silence  fol- 
lowed. A  few  moments  later  a  heavy  step  began  to 
descend  the  stairs.  Mrs.  Bowen  straightened  herself 
up  and  tried  to  assume  the  vacant  air  of  the  polite 
caller;  Evelyn's  face  grew  hot,  and  she  felt  as 
if  she  were  about  to  be  detected  in  the  act  of  eaves- 
dropping. 


XIII. 

Oswald  Webb  looked  haggard  when  he  entered 
the  room.  As  he  shook  hands  with  his  callers  he 
said  it  was  very  good  of  them  to  climb  the  hill 
on  such  a  hot  day.  And  had  the  maid  given  them 
a  glass  of  lemonade?  No?  That  was  thoughtless 
of  her ;  they  always  kept  some  iced  lemonade  in  the 
hall.  But  they  would  have  some  wine  instead. 
That  would  be  better.  No,  Mrs.  Bowen  didn't  take 
wine?  What' a  pity!  But  Miss  Johnson  would? 
She  would  prefer  lemonade?  Of  course,  of  course, 
it  was  cooling  in  summer.  He  would  bring  it  in 
himself. 

He  acted  as  if  he  was  trying  to  hide  his  excite- 
ment by  talking.  Hurrying  out  into  the  hall,  he 
came  back  with  a  large  silver  tankard  covered  with 
fine  moisture. 

"  Ah,  we  haven't  any  glasses."  He  placed  the 
tankard  on  the  table  and  pressed  the  electric  button. 

"  Mrs.  Webb  will  be  down  presently,"  he  went 
on,  rapidly.  "  No,  she  hasn't  been  quite  as  well  as 
usual.  She's  still  suffering  from  the  effects  of  that 
reckless  trip.  It's  my  fault,  too;  I  ought  not  to 
have  allowed  it.  But  she's  better  —  ever  so  much 
better,  and  she'll  be  delighted  to  see  you.  It  was 
ever  so  good  of  you  to  come.  We  have  thought 
—  that  is,  I  did ;  Mrs.  Webb  wouldn't  give  up  hope 

8S 


86       «^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *^ 

—  that  the  heat  might  keep  you  at  home.  Margaret, 
won't  you  bring  some  glasses,  please?  But  she's 
much  better  —  ever  so  much  better.  This  morning 
she  was  a  little  down;  she  has  those  melancholy 
turns  —  always  when  the  weather  is  bad.  Isn't 
it  curious?  Ah,  there's  nothing  like  health."  He 
had  been  glancing  vaguely  at  Evelyn  as  he  rattled  ofif 
these  remarks.  Then  he  suddenly  turned  to  Mrs. 
Bowen,  who  was  looking  at  him,  with  a  half-pitying 
expression :  "  I  hope  your  health  is  excellent,  Mrs. 
Bowen." 

Her  face  grew  red,  then  pale.  "  Oh,  very  good, 
very  good,"  she  stammered.  "  Except  for  a  little, 
just  a  little  heart-trouble."  Heart-trouble  was  one 
of  her  favourite  topics. 

"  Ah,  do  you  have  that  ?  Mrs.  Webb  has  had 
some  —  some  difficulty  in  that  way.  It  must  have 
been  very  trying  for  you  to  climb  the  hill." 

"  Oh,  no,  it  isn't  so  bad  as  that,"  laughed  Mrs. 
Bowen,  fibbing  in  her  nervousness,  for  hills  were 
the  especial  abhorrence  of  her  summer  life. 

"  It  is  a  pretty  high  hill.  But  it  is  very  pleasant 
when  you  get  to  the  top.  Put  the  glasses  on  the 
table,  Margaret.  Thanks.  Have  you  noticed  the 
view?  But  you'll  have  some  lemonade  first.  It 
was  thoughtless  of  the  girl  not  to  give  you  some. 
And  she  didn't  g^ve  you  fans  either.  Yes,  it  is 
cool  here.  We  keep  the  house  shut  up  most  of  the 
day.  But  we  have  a  lot  of  palm-leaf  fans  round 
somewhere  if  you  should  care  for  them." 

His  hands  trembled  as  he  poured  the  lemonade 
into  the  glasses.  Mrs.  Bowen,  who  was  watching 
him  closely,  gathering  details,  wondered  how  a  man 
so  healthy  and  strong  could  be  so  nervous ;  even  if 


•^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «^       87 

he  had  been  excited  by  that  scene  with  his  wife  his 
tact  ought  to  enable  him  to  control  himself.  Evelyn 
wished  that  Mrs.  Bowen  would  stop  staring;  of 
course,  he  knew  she  was  staring  and  that  made  him 
the  more  self-conscious. 

"  I  hope  it's  sweet  enough,"  he  said,  as  he  passed 
the  glasses  to  them.  "  If  it  isn't,  we  can  have  some 
more  sugar." 

"  It's  lovely,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  sipping  it,  "  just 
right."  Then  when  she  had  drained  the  glass,  she 
said :   "  Oh,  it's  so  good !  " 

"  Won't  you  let  me  give  you  — "  said  Webb, 
excitedly. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  she  touched  her  lips  with 
her  handkerchief. 

"  Miss  Johnson  ?  " 

But  Evelyn  shook  her  head  too. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  lifting  the  lid  and  looking  into 
the  pitcher,  "  I'll  drink  the  rest  myself."  When  he 
had  drained  a  glass,  he  said,  with  a  smile :  "  I  don't 
often  indulge  in  lemonade." 

"  It  is  a  lady's  drink,"  Mrs.  Bowen  echoed. 

They  seemed  suddenly  to  have  exhausted  their 
small  talk. 

"  Oh,  I  promised  to  show  you  the  view,"  Webb 
exclaimed,  jumping  up  from  his  seat.  "  Come  out 
on  the  side  piazza.     The  best  view  is  from  there." 

They  followed  him  to  the  next  room.  It  seemed 
to  be  a  kind  of  sitting-room,  and  with  its  pillows, 
its  bric-a-brac,  and  its  frivolous  ornamentation,  it 
had  a  feminine  air.  He  opened  one  of  the  windows 
that  reached  to  the  ground,  threw  back  the  blinds, 
and  stepped  out.  Beneath  them  lay  Cohasset  with 
its   picturesque   cottages   half-hidden   in   the  trees, 


88       ^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

beyond  which  stretched  the  ocean.  A  cool  breeze 
was  stirring. 

"  There's  almost  always  a  breeze  here,"  said 
Webb,  "  even  when  it's  hottest.  We're  up  so  high, 
you  know.  This  is  my  wife's  balcony  and  sitting- 
room.  I'm  allowed  here  only  by  special  favour. 
When  she's  well  she  sits  here  from  morning  till 
night  doing  her  fancy  work  and  her  painting." 

"  Ah,  she  paints,  then  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  her 
eyes  brightening. 

"  Yes,  she  has  a  very  pretty  talent.  I'll  show  you 
some  of  her  pictures  when  we  go  in." 

They  uttered  the  usual  exclamations  over  the 
view;  that  is,  Mrs.  Bowen  uttered  them  for  both. 
When  they  returned  to  the  sitting-room,  Webb 
showed  them  some  of  his  wife's  pictures.  Even 
Mrs.  Bowen  seemed  appalled  by  them;  her  enrap- 
tured flow  ceased.  Evelyn  wondered  whether  Mr. 
Webb  really  believed  that  his  wife  did  have  a 
"  pretty  talent." 

While  they  were  lingering  over  the  pictures,  they 
heard  a  rustle  on  the  stairs,  and  in  a  moment  Mrs. 
Webb  appeared  in  the  room.  Evelyn  saw  her  hus- 
band give  her  a  keen  look,  which  seemed  to  relieve 
him.  Mrs.  Webb  greeted  them  cordially.  She 
didn't  even  stop  to  be  introduced. 

"  You're  the  dear  creature  who  was  so  good  to 
me  yesterday,"  she  said,  taking  both  Evelyn's  hands, 
"  You  must  let  me  kiss  you."  Her  eyes  shone,  and 
there  was  a  faint  tinge  of  colour  in  her  haggard 
cheeks.  "  I  am  so  grateful.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
grateful."  Then  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Bowen,  and 
said,  offering  her  hand:    "And  I'm  very  glad  to 


*$»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       ^       89 

see  you  too.    I  know  all  about  you.    Mr.  Webb  has 
told  me." 

They  presently  went  back  to  the  library.  Mrs. 
Webb  showed  an  even  greater  desire  to  talk  than 
her  husband  had  done.  He  soon  turned  to  Mrs. 
Bowen,  leaving  Evelyn  to  his  wife.  Mrs.  Webb  had 
a  high  nasal  voice  that  rang  through  the  room,  and 
a  nervous,  rasping  laugh.  Her  frail  body  seemed 
to  be  galvanised  into  life  by  a  fierce  will,  shown  in 
her  quick  movements,  in  her  voice,  in  her  manner 
of  speaking,  in  her  flashing  glances.  She  asked 
Evelyn  all  kinds  of  questions,  chiefly  about  her 
stage  life.  Didn't  she  love  it?  No?  How  strange! 
She  thought  all  actresses  loved  it,  and  hated  to 
give  it  up ;  they  were  always  going  back  to  it.  But 
those  were  the  successful  ones.  Miss  Johnson  was 
too  modest.  Oh,  it  must  be  glorious,  the  excitement, 
the  applause,  the  lights!  Mrs.  Webb  loved  excite- 
ment. She  would  like  to  live  in  it.  Wasn't  it  cruel 
that  one  with  such  a  temperament  as  hers  should 
be  so  afflicted?  Her  life  was  a  living  death.  And 
sometimes  the  pain,  the  pain  was  terrible.  She  had 
prayed  and  prayed  for  death.  Of  course,  she  didn't 
really  want  to  die;  life  was  sweet,  and  she  never 
gave  up  hope.  Once  she  had  been  cruelly  deceived 
by  a  physician;  he  had  promised  to  cure  her;  she 
had  been  so  happy  for  months,  living  on  hope,  mak- 
ing plans  —  such  beautiful  plans  —  for  travel  and 
a  great  many  other  delightful  things.  She  had 
everything  that  money  could  buy.  But  it  couldn't 
buy  health.  Oh,  she  would  give  all  she  had  will- 
ingly, gladly,  for  one  year  of  health.  Her  husband 
cared  for  nothing  but  books ;  he  was  always  happy 
if  he  had  books  around  him.     Of  course,  he  was 


90       «^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *f» 

good  to  her;  but  she  was  a  wreck,  a  mere  wreck. 
Did  Miss  Johnson  think  he  was  handsome?  Some- 
times she  was  very  jealous.  It  was  foohsh,  but 
how  could  she  help  it?  Oh,  it  was  cruel,  it  was 
cruel,  the  irony  of  her  fate !    It  was  cruel ! 

In  the  midst  of  Mrs.  Webb's  monologue  —  it  was 
really  a  monologue  interrupted  only  now  and  then 
by  Evelyn's  polite  confirmations  —  Mrs.  Bowen 
could  be  heard  in  rhapsodical  exclamations.  She 
was  discussing  literature  again,  confiding  to  Webb 
her  intention  of  undertaking  a  "  work."  Something 
that  she  said  had  made  Webb  refer  to  a  book  in  his 
wife's  collection,  and  before  Mrs.  Webb  had  paused 
in  the  recital  of  her  woes,  he  had  led  Mrs.  Bowen 
into  the  next  room.    Mrs.  Webb  seemed  relieved. 

"  I  don't  like  your  friend,"  she  said,  tersely,  snap- 
ping her  teeth  together. 

"Don't  you?"  said  Evelyn,  in  surprise.  Then, 
thinking  the  remark  due  to  an  invalid's  excusable 
vagaries,  she  added,  politely :  "  I'm  sure  you'd  like 
her  if  you  knew  her  better." 

"  I'm  sure  I  should  not."  The  teeth  snapped 
again.  "  My  first  impressions  are  always  right. 
Sickness  may  not  have  strengthened  my  brain,  but 
it  has  sharpened  my  instinct.  Invalids  get  to  be 
very  like  animals." 

"Oh,  really  —  " 

"  Like  fine  animals,  I  mean,  like  high-bred  dogs, 
hunting-dogs." 

"  But,  why  don't  you  like  Mrs.  Bowen,  Mrs. 
Webb?" 

"  She's  reportorial." 

"Reportorial?" 

"  Yes.     She  repeats.     She  takes  in  everything 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «f»       91 

with  those  Httle  eyes  of  hers,  and  when  she  goes 
home  she'll  tell  it  all  to  her  husband.  They're 
always  their  husbands'  slaves  —  those  women  are. 
I  hate  repeating  women.  The  world  is  full  of  them. 
If  they'd  stop  their  repeating  with  their  husbands, 
'twouldn't  be  so  bad.  But  they  repeat  to  other 
people,  too,  to  other  repeaters,  other  women.  She's 
just  as  sly!    I  can  tell !  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  you  misjudge  her,"  Evelyn  in- 
sisted, with  a  strange  impulse  to  laugh. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  she's  doing  in  there  with 
my  husband?"  Mrs.  Webb  asked,  sharply. 

"  I  don't  know  —  looking  at  some  books,  I  sup- 
pose. She's  fond  of  books."  Evelyn  was  beginning 
to  feel  queer. 

"  As  if  there  weren't  books  enough  here !  Why 
couldn't  she  look  at  these?  " 

Mrs.  Webb  sat  back  in  her  chair  and  half-closed 
her  eyes.  She  was  evidently  tired.  Evelyn  wished 
that  Mrs.  Bowen  would  come  back  so  that  they 
might  go  home.  Presently  the  invalid  opened  her 
eyes  and  sat  up  again. 

"  I  like  you,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  emphati- 
cally. 

Evelyn's  face  betrayed  her  confusion. 

"  You're  honest.  You're  not  a  bit  sly.  You  can 
be  trusted." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Evelyn,  with  a  nervous  laugh. 

Mrs.  Bowen  returned  to  the  room,  followed  by 
Webb.  "  Mrs.  Bowen  has  just  told  me  about  the 
loss  of  your  pocketbook,"  said  Webb.  "  She 
thought  I  knew  of  it."  Then  he  turned  to  his 
wife  and  explained. 

"  Two  hundred  dollars!  "  Mrs.  Webb  exclaimed, 


92       «^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f» 

horror-stricken.  "  You  poor  child,  and  my  fault, 
too." 

"  Oh,  no !  "  Evelyn  expostulated. 

"  It  might  have  happened  anyway,"  said  Mrs. 
Bowen,  to  relieve  the  tension. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  I  was  sent  to  make  trouble 
in  the  world,"  said  Mrs.  Webb,  mournfully. 

Evelyn  rose,  and  Mrs.  Bowen,  who  was  prepared 
for  a  much  longer  sitting,  had  to  follow  her  ex- 
ample. 

"  I'm  more  in  your  debt  now  than  ever,"  said  Mrs. 
Webb,  offering  Evelyn  her  hand.  "  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  robbed  you  of  that  money  myself." 


XIV. 

The  next  morning  the  Stearns  boys  arrived  at 
Appleby  Terrace;  for  several  years  they  had  spent 
their  summers  there.  They  were  fine,  handsome 
fellows,  tall,  with  broad  shoulders,  blond  and  good- 
natured.  Roscoe  Stearns  was  two  years  older  than 
Gerald,  but  Gerald  was  a  little  the  taller,  and  they 
were  often  taken  for  twins.  Their  faces  were  firmly 
outlined,  and  their  blue  eyes  wore  a  frank,  manly 
expression.  They  were  the  sons  of  Dr.  Reginald 
Stearns,  of  Boston.  Their  mother  had  died  a  few 
weeks  after  Gerald's  birth,  and  they  had  been 
brought  up  by  their  father  on  strict  scientific  princi- 
ples. He  had  kept  a  minute  record  of  their  growth, 
which  included  their  weight  at  various  periods,  their 
infantile  diseases,  as  well  as  of  their  quaint  sayings 
and  their  occasional  misbehaviour,  and  he  had  made 
sacrifices  in  his  large  practice  in  order  to  give  them 
the  attention  that  their  mother  would  have  given  if 
she  had  lived.  He  had  a  ruddy,  kindly  face,  a  con- 
tagious laugh,  and  a  firm  grip.  Every  Wednesday 
and  Saturday,  while  the  boys  were  at  Appleby  Ter- 
race, he  used  to  come  down  on  an  early  boat  and 
pass  the  afternoon  and  evening  with  them.  They 
worshipped  him,  and  they  treated  him  like  an  older 
brother,  and  they  called  him  "  Pop."  Mrs.  Appleby 
was  proud  of  having  the  boys  in  her  house,  and 

93 


94       *^       -A.  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f» 

she  showed  her  esteem  for  their  father  by  assuming 
in  his  presence  her  most  affected  manner.  There 
was  always  rejoicing  when  they  arrived.  This  year 
Mrs.  Appleby  met  them  at  the  door,  and  as  she  shook 
hands  she  gave  each  of  them  a  hearty  kiss. 

"  Oh !  you're  only  boys  to  me  though  you  are 
in  Harvard,"  she  laughed,  when  she  saw  them  blush. 
Roscoe  had  been  in  college  two  years,  and  Gerald 
had  just  ceased  to  be  a  freshman. 

Mrs.  Bowen  and  Evelyn  were  half-hidden  behind 
Mrs.  Appleby's  back.  The  boys  gave  them  an  en- 
thusiastic greeting. 

"  Awfully  glad  you're  down  again,"  said  Roscoe, 
shaking  Evelyn's  hand.  "  We  must  have  some  more 
Shakespeare."  The  year  before  they  had  read 
Shakespeare  together  under  the  trees.  Evelyn  had 
pretended  to  give  Roscoe  lessons  in  elocution,  but 
she  had  really  learned  more  from  him  than  she  had 
taught. 

"  Where  is  Ned?  "  she  asked.  "  Isn't  he  coming?  " 

The  reference  was  to  Ned  Osgood,  the  boys' 
inseparable  companion  and  Roscoe's  classmate,  a 
tall,  lean  young  man  with  a  thin,  serious  face,  but 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes  that  betrayed  his  real 
character.  The  year  before,  with  his  jokes,  he  had 
kept  the  house  in  a  constant  state  of  excitement. 
He  was  held  in  high  favour  by  the  boarders,  but 
Mrs.  Appleby  abhorred  him,  and  it  was  only  her 
fondness  for  the  other  boys  that  persuaded  her  to 
take  him  back  every  year;  she  knew  they  would 
not  come  without  him.  It  was  he,  she  suspected, 
that  inspired  the  nightly  raids  on  the  pantry. 

Gerald  was  greeting  Mrs.   Bowen  and   'Evelyn.  ' 
"  Is  Mr,  Seymour  going  to  be  here  this  summer  ?  " 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       «^       95 

He  had  not  heard  that  the  engagement  was  broken. 
Evelyn,  who  was  becoming  hardened  to  these  refer- 
ences, repHed :   "  Yes,  he's  coming  to-day,  I  think." 

The  boys  must  have  noticed  the  embarrassment 
that  fell  upon  the  group,  for  a  surprised  look  came 
into  their  faces.  Evelyn  knew  that  she  could  rely 
on  Mrs.  Bowen  to  explain  everything.  As  soon  as 
the  boys  had  changed  their  clothes,  Mrs.  Appleby 
and  Mrs.  Bowen  would  confer  with  them  in  the 
parlour  and  prepare  them  for  the  summer  life.  To 
escape  the  conference,  she  decided  to  go  away  for  a 
walk.  The  year  before  she  had  rarely  been  alone. 
Harold  Seymour  had  spent  most  of  his  time  with 
her,  and  Mrs.  Appleby  had  been  constantly  inviting 
him  to  meals.  This  morning  he  was  probably  down 
at  Scituate,  calling  on  his  friend,  Tom  Marble,  the 
comedian. 

Evelyn  had  not  gone  far  along  the  Jerusalem 
Road  when  she  saw  a  tall,  athletic  figure  swinging 
down  from  the  top  of  the  hill.  Oswald  Webb  did 
not  recognise  her  until  he  had  crossed  into  the  road 
and  had  come  face  to  face  with  her. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  call  on  you,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"  And  I  was  going  for  a  walk." 

"  Then  let  us  walk  together.  That  will  be  better. 
Where  were  you  going?  " 

"  I  thought  of  going  down  on  the  rocks.  I  like 
to  sit  there  and  see  the  waves  dash  up." 

"  I  don't  believe  there'll  be  much  dashing  this 
morning.  The  sea  is  so  calm.  But  I  should  like 
to  go  down  with  you  if  I  may." 

They  walked  along  in  silence  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  said :  "  Mrs.  Webb  wanted  me  to  come  to  see 
you." 


96       ^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

"  I  hope  she's  better." 

"  Yes,  she's  much  brighter  this  morning.  But 
she  hasn't  quite  recovered  from  that  unfortunate 
journey." 

When  they  reached  the  rocks,  they  sat  down  and 
watched  the  waves  surging  over  them.  The  tide 
was  rising  rapidly. 

"  I  often  come  here  and  sit,"  he  said.  "  It  soothes 
me  when  I'm  low-spirited." 

"  I  think  I've  seen  you  here." 

He  looked  confused,  but  he  made  no  comment. 
An  ocean  steamer  was  staining  the  sky  with  a  long 
streak  of  black  smoke.  He  said  he  thought  it  was 
the  Cephalonia;  he  had  gone  over  on  the  Cepha- 
lonia  with  Mrs.  Webb  three  years  before.  But  the 
voyage  had  not  helped  her ;  indeed,  it  had  depressed 
her  greatly.  No,  she  hadn't  been  seasick;  that 
seemed  strange,  but  the  sight  of  the  ocean  had  almost 
maddened  her.  To  avoid  looking  at  it,  she  had 
been  obliged  to  stay  in  her  cabin  and  in  the  saloon, 
and  she  had  dreaded  the  return  trip  so  much  that 
they  had  remained  abroad  several  months  longer 
than  they  intended  to  do.  Only  her  terrible  home- 
sickness could  have  given  her  courage  to  face  the 
ocean  again. 

There  was  a  strangeness  in  his  manner  that  made 
Evelyn  think  he  was  keeping  back  something.  She 
wondered  what  it  could  be.  At  last  he  returned  to 
the  subject  of  the  robbery,  awkwardly,  as  if  he  felt 
he  ought  to  apologise  for  touching  upon  it  aguin. 

"  Mrs.  Webb  and  I,"  he  said,  "  have  been  talking 
—  we've  been  thinking  that  —  that  we  were  to  blame 
for  losing  your  pocketbook." 

"  No,  no,  of  course  you  weren't,"  Evelyn  replied. 


«^         A   Daughter  of  Thespis       ^       97 

"  But  it  wouldn't  have  happened  if  Mrs.  Webb 
hadn't  been  taken  ill;  if  you  hadn't  come  to  help 
her." 

"  It  might,"  she  said,  dubiously,  appreciating  the 
force  of  the  argument. 

"  But  it  really  wouldn't.    It  was  our  fault." 

"  Oh,  no,  it  was  the  fault  of  no  one  except  the 
one  that  stole  it.  And  I  am  sure  you  didn't  steal 
it,"  she  added,  with  a  nervous  laugh. 

"  I  wish  I  had,"  he  said.  "  I'd  own  up  and  give 
it  back.  But  Mrs.  Webb  and  I  have  looked  at  it 
from  all  sides,  and  we've  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
we  —  that  we  owe  you  the  money.  It's  just  the 
same  as  if  I  had  taken  it.    It's  a  debt." 

"  But  it  isn't,"  she  insisted,  trying  to  laugh.  "  I 
can't  consider  it  that  way." 

He  looked  distressed  —  but  he  said :  "  All  right ; 
only  she'll  blame  me.  She'll  say  I  wasn't  tactful 
enough." 

"  Then  you  must  tell  her  that  I  said  you  were 
very  tactful.  Tell  her  that  you  would  have  per- 
suaded me,  if  I  hadn't  been  the  most  obstinate  person 
in  the  world." 

"  I  couldn't  say  that,"  he  replied,  smiling. 

The  tide  had  risen  almost  to  their  feet,  and  at 
last  Evelyn  said  she  feared  it  wasn't  safe  for  them 
to  sit  there  any  longer ;  besides,  she  ought  really  to 
go  home,  she  had  letters  to  write  before  luncheon. 
Webb  rose  and  helped  her  over  the  rocks. 

On  the  way  he  fell  once  more  to  talking  about 
his  wife. 

"  I  hope  you'll  come  to  see  Mrs.  Webb  again,"  he 
said.  "  Mrs.  Webb  doesn't  often  take  fancies ;  but 
she  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  you.     Besides,"  he 


98       «^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

added,  smiling,  "  you're  the  only  actress  she  has 
ever  met.  You  see  the  world  is  still  new  to  her. 
She's  been  an  invalid  almost  ever  since  she  left 
school.  You  mustn't  mind  if  she  treats  you  as  a 
kindof  — of  — " 

"  Curiosity  ?  "  said  Evelyn,  with  a  smile. 

He  burst  out  laughing.  "  No,  I  didn't  mean 
that." 

When  they  reached  Appleby  Terrace,  they  found 
Seymour  there  surrounded  by  the  Stearns  boys  and 
by  Ned  Osgood,  who  had  come  in  her  absence.  The 
boys'  laughter  could  be  heard  a  long  distance  away. 
When  Ned  saw  her,  he  jumped  from  his  seat,  and 
seized  both  her  hands. 

"  You're  looking  just  as  sweet  as  ever,"  he  said. 
"  I  suppose  you've  been  just  pulverising  hearts  all 
winter." 

Oswald  Webb  walked  up  to  the  porch  to  speak 
to  the  other  boys  and  to  ask  for  their  father;  so 
Evelyn  had  to  present  Harold  Seymour.  It  struck 
Evelyn  that  there  was  a  slight  resemblance  between 
the  two  men ;  but  Webb's  face  had  more  vigour  than 
Seymour's,  and  more  character. 

"  I've  often  seen  you  in  the  water,"  said  Webb. 
"  Haven't  we  had  swimming  matches  together?  " 

"  I  think  we  have,"  Seymour  replied,  smiling. 

Seymour  and  Webb  fell  at  once  into  animated 
talk  about  sports.  They  evidently  liked  each  other, 
and  were  soon  on  a  familiar  footing.  The  boys 
turned  their  attention  from  Seymour  and  gathered 
around  Evelyn. 

Ned  Osgood  was  in  high  spirits.  He  had  stories 
to  tell  about  his  year  in  Cambridge.  The  boys  were 
always  enlightening  her  about  college  life.      Her 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis       ^       99 

ideas  of  Harvard  had  grown  very  mixed.  She 
thought  it  must  be  a  queer  college,  but  she  had  de- 
cided that  any  college  that  could  show  such  boys  as 
Roscoe  and  Gerald  must  be  a  very  good  place. 
Roscoe  had  a  serious,  searching  mind,  he  studied 
and  read  hard,  even  in  the  dog-days.  Gerald  spent 
most  of  his  time  in  dreaming  and  in  writing  bits  of 
verse  which  he  never  elaborated  into  poems;  he 
had,  too,  a  nice  way  with  children,  and  all  the  young- 
sters in  Cohasset  knew  and  liked  him.  Ned  Osgood 
took  everything  flippantly;  he  would  always  make 
a  joke  of  life  and  be  happy;  at  college,  he  never 
studied,  but  he  invariably  pulled  through  his  courses, 
much  to  the  wonderment  of  Roscoe,  who  used  to 
worry  about  him  and  coach  him  before  his  examina- 
tions. They  now  had  a  great  deal  to  tell  Evelyn 
about  their  year  in  Cambridge.  Each  had  enjoyed 
it  in  his  own  way :  Roscoe  with  his  work,  Gerald 
with  his  dreams,  and  Ned  with  his  sport.  Evelyn 
was  a  sympathetic  listener;  she  could  even  enjoy 
jokes  she  didn't  understand;  the  boys  were  always 
trying  to  explain  things  to  her,  and  her  bewilderment 
greatly  amused  them.  It  was  only  when  she  was 
alone  with  Roscoe  or  with  Gerald  that  she  had 
serious  talks  with  the  brothers.  Roscoe  told  her 
all  about  his  work  and  his  ambitions,  and  Gerald 
sometimes  showed  her  his  scraps  of  verse.  They 
were  deep  in  the  discussion  of  college  life,  when 
Oswald  Webb,  with  one  of  Seymour's  cigars  in 
his  mouth,  started  to  go. 

"  I  have  made  a  very  long  call,"  he  said,  apolo- 
getically, "  and  Mrs.  Webb  will  worry.  I  don't 
often  play  truant  like  this." 

Seymour  walked  a  short  distance  up  the  road  with 


lOO     «^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *$» 

him,  and  the  boys  took  themselves  off  to  the  beach. 
When  Seymour  returned,  he  sat  beside  Evelyn  on 
the  porch. 

''  Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  said,  "  did  you  know  they 
were  going  to  have  a  performance  of  *  As  You  Like 
It '  down  here  ?  It's  to  be  on  the  grounds  of  some 
one  named  Stevenson,  I  think." 

"  At  Mrs.  Barclay  Stevenson's,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  that's  it.  They've  asked  me  to  do  Orlando." 

"  Who's  to  be  the  Rosalind?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  they  have  got  any  one  yet.  I 
suggested  you." 

"  That  was  kind  of  you.  But  they'll  want  a  better 
actress.    Who's  getting  it  up?  " 

"  That  newspaper  woman.  Miss  Finley,  I  think 
her  name  is,  the  woman  that  used  to  write  things 
about  us  last  summer." 

Evelyn  sighed.  "  Oh,  she  won't  want  me,"  she 
said.     "  I'm  not  important  enough." 


XV. 

In  the  morning  Evelyn  received  a  long  letter 
from  Madge  Guernsey.  The  soubrette  began  by 
announcing  that  she  had  signed  with  Saunderson 
for  "  Deception ;  "  he  had  engaged  her  the  day  after 
the  performance  in  Yonkers.  She  hadn't  received 
the  lines  yet,  but  she  had  heard  the  part  was  great. 
And  had  Evelyn  had  any  encouragement  from  Mrs. 
Freeman  ?  Madge  knew  there  was  a  beautiful  part 
in  Thayer's  play  that  Saunderson  hadn't  engaged 
any  one  for;  she  had  just  cracked  Evelyn  up  to 
the  skies  before  Mrs.  Freeman  and  Saunderson  at 
the  agency.  Saunderson  said  the  success  of  the  new 
piece  depended  as  much  on  the  character  of  Ma- 
thilde  as  on  the  heavy  part.  On  the  last  page  of 
Madge's  letter  was  a  brief  postscript,  which  read: 
"  We  talked  you  over  pretty  well  after  the  per- 
formance in  Yonkers.  Mrs,  Barton  just  railed 
about  you.  A  certain  person  had  been  pouring  his 
woes  into  her  ears,  and  you  know  what  that  means ; 
she  said  she  thought  you  had  treated  a  certain  per- 
son real  mean,  and  I  up  and  defended  you,  and  we 
had  it  hot  and  heavy  till  we  got  to  New  York. 
Though  I  did  stick  up  for  you,  dear,  I  couldn't  help 
feeling  there  was  some  right  on  a  certain  person's 
side.  I  suppose  we  oughtn't  to  be  too  hard  on  the 
dear  boys.    They  can't  be  angels  like  we!  "    (With 

lOI 


I02      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f» 

Evelyn,  Madge  sometimes  made  spasmodic  and  dis- 
astrous efforts  to  be  grammatical.)  "  I  believe  they 
wouldn't  be  half  as  nice  if  they  were,  for,  if  there's 
anything  I  do  like  in  a  man,  it's  a  little  spice.  I 
hate  these  tiresome,  sleepy,  psalm-singing  things. 
So,  dear,  I  hope  you  did  make  up.  Mrs.  Barton 
said  he  was  all  broke  up,  —  a  certain  person,  I 
mean.  Wasn't  he  great,  though,  in  the  third  act? 
Saunderson  said  he  wished  he  could  get  him  for 
*  Deception.'  He  said  he  (a  certain  person)  could 
give  Harry  Davidson  points.  I  think  so,  too.  So, 
don't  be  a  fool,  dear." 

Evelyn  decided  to  answer  Madge  Guernsey's  let- 
ter at  once.  When  she  had  finished  this  task,  one 
of  the  servants  came  up  with  a  card.  She  wondered 
who  would  call  her  at  that  time  in  the  morning. 
Perhaps  Oswald  Webb  had  come  with  another  mes- 
sage from  his  wife.  When  she  looked  at  the  card, 
she  read,  "  Miss  Isabel  Finley,  The  Boston  Tele- 
graph." 

It  was  not  till  she  had  begun  to  arrange  her  hair 
before  the  mirror  that  she  recalled  Miss  Finley's 
connection  with  the  performance  of  "  As  You  Like 
It ;  "  perhaps  the  call  had  something  to  do  with  that. 
They  might  ask  her  to  play  Phoebe ;  it  was  as  good 
a  part  as  she  could  expect  to  play. 

Evelyn  found  Ned  Osgood  standing  in  the  lower 
hall,  peering  into  the  parlour,  where  Miss  Finley 
was  rocking  herself  rhythmically.  Ned  beamed  upon 
her  as  she  descended  the  stairs. 

"  Groing  to  be  interviewed  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not,"  Evelyn  replied,  with  a  smile. 

"  Oh,  come  now,  I  believe  you  like  it." 

"  I  wish  you  could  go  through  it  for  me." 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      103 

"So  do  I.     Why  can't  I?" 

"  If  you'll  come  in,  I'll  introduce  you.  You  can 
help  me  out." 

"  Well,  I  guess  not  to-day,"  said  Ned,  laughing 
and  drawing  back.  "  I'm  afraid.  She  looks  dan- 
gerous. I'm  always  afraid  of  girls  who  wear  red 
shoes.  Just  see  her  rocking  in  that  chair,  will  you? 
She's  quite  at  home." 

"Sh!    She'll  hear  you!" 

"  Aren't  you  going  in  ?  "  Ned  asked,  seeing  Eve- 
lyn hesitate. 

"  I'm  afraid,  too.    I  wish  Mrs.  Bowen  were  here." 

"  She  was ;  but  when  she  saw  Miss  Finley,  she 
ran  away.     She  said  she  knew  you'd  drag  her  in," 

"  That  was  very  unkind  of  her." 

Miss  Finley  continued  to  rock.  Evelyn  and  Ned 
stood  in  the  hall  a  few  moments  longer,  scrutinising 
her. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  go  in." 

"  Well,  good  luck  to  you,"  said  Ned,  cheerfully. 
"  I'll  be  out  on  the  porch,  and,  if  she  attempts  per- 
sonal violence,  just  scream  and  I'll  rush  in." 

When  Evelyn  entered.  Miss  Finley  rose  from  the 
rocker. 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  meet  you  at  last,"  she  said.  "  I 
feel  as  if  I'd  known  you  for  years." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  replied  Evelyn,  hardly  pre- 
pared for  this  enthusiasm. 

"  Yes,  ever  since  I  saw  you  at  the  Museum. 
That's  a  long  time  ago.  You've  been  on  the  stage 
a  great  many  years,  haven't  you  ?  ** 

"  Seven,"  said  Evelyn. 

"  Dear  me,  I  never  should  suspect  it.  Why,  you 
look  ever  so  much  younger  than  I  do." 


I04      ♦      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

Evelyn  made  a  rapid  calculation,  and  decided 
that  Miss  Finley  must  be  at  least  ten  years  older 
than  herself. 

"  But  actresses,"  the  journalist  went  on,  "  seem 
to  have  the  art  of  looking  young  always.  Now, 
there's  Mrs.  Gwendoline  West.  She's  fifty-five, 
if  she's  a  day.  Yet,  when  she  fixes  up,  she  looks 
as  young  —  well,  as  any  of  us." 

"  Really  ?  "  said  Evelyn,  alarmed  at  the  turn  the 
conversation  had  taken. 

"  Yes,  but  you  should  see  her  in  the  morning 
just  after  she  gets  up,  or  when  she's  in  bed.  Then 
she's  ghastly.  She's  a  great  friend  of  mine.  I  once 
travelled  with  her  for  six  weeks.  I  suppose  you 
know  her." 

Evelyn  shook  her  head. 

"  She's  a  good  actress.  I  tried  to  get  her  for  the 
play;  but  she's  at  the  Thousand  Islands,  and 
wouldn't  come." 

"  What  play  was  that  ? "  Evelyn  asked,  inno- 
cently. 

"  Ah,  that's  just  what  I've  come  to  see  you 
about."  Miss  Finley  bent  forward  eagerly,  allow- 
ing a  little  red  shoe  to  peer  from  under  her  blue 
skirt.  "  We're  going  to  get  up  a  performance  of 
*As  You  Like  It'  for  The  Telegraph  Fresh-Air 
Fund,  to  send  poor  children  out  of  the  city  for  a 
little  while  in  the  hot  weather,  you  know.  It's  my 
pet  charity."  There  was  a  pause,  during  which 
Miss  Finley's  eyes  swept  Evelyn  from  head  to  foot. 
"  We  want  you  to  play  for  us  in  our  performance," 
she  went  on,  with  her  persuasive  smile.  "  Will 
you?" 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^     105 

Evelyn  felt  her  face  flushing.  "What  part?" 
she  asked. 

"  Why  the  leading  part,  of  course." 

"Rosalind?" 

Miss  Finley  nodded. 

"  Oh,  I  wonder  if  I  could !  I  wonder  if  I'm  up 
to  it?"  Evelyn's  face  shone.  To  play  Rosalind! 
She  had  never  expected  to  get  such  a  chance. 

"I'm  sure  you  are." 

Then  Evelyn  recalled  Miss  Finley's  remarks 
about  Mrs.  Gwendoline  West.  It  was  not  such  a 
compliment,  after  all ;  Mrs.  West  had  refused  the 
part ;  and  at  the  last  moment  they  invited  her,  prob- 
ably because  she  would  cost  them  nothing  for  rail- 
road fares  or  board.  The  public,  however,  need 
not  be  informed  of  those  things.  It  would  be  a 
legitimate  advertisement  for  her.  Besides,  it  would 
be  almost  impossible  to  fail  in  an  open-air  perform- 
ance; the  audience  would  be  lenient;  much  would 
depend  on  her  posing  and  her  looks,  and  these  she 
had  skill  enough  to  arrange  satisfactorily. 

Miss  Finley  was  watching  her  closely.  Finally 
Evelyn  said : 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.     I  don't  know." 

"  But  you  really  must,  dear,"  said  the  journalist. 

"  I  will  let  you  know  to-morrow,"  Evelyn  replied 
with  decision. 

"  Can't  you  make  it  this  afternoon  ?  "  asked  Miss 
Finley,  elevating  her  eyebrows.     "  I'll  call." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  Evelyn  replied,  nervously. 
"  But  I'll  save  you  the  trouble  by  sending  you  a 
note.     One  of  the  boys  will  take  it." 

Miss  Finley  pursed  her  lips  to  indicate  her  satis- 
faction. 


io6     ♦       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ♦ 

"  When  is  it  going  to  be?  "  Evelyn  asked. 

"  The  seventeenth." 

"Of  August?" 

"July." 

"  So  soon  ?  Why,  we  shall  hardly  have  time  to 
leam  the  parts." 

Miss  Finley  tried  to  pretend  that  she  did  not  ob- 
serve this  betrayal;  but  Evelyn,  who  was  angry 
with  herself  for  having  made  it,  saw  her  face  light 
up. 

"We  must  have  it  early  to  get  the  money  the 
fund  needs.  Besides,  some  of  the  actors  have  played 
the  parts  before.  Mr.  Seymour  and  Miss  Gordon 
and  Mr.  Marble  have,  I  know." 

"  It  seems  hardly  fair  that  Miss  Gordon  should 
play  Celia  to  my  Rosalind,"  said  Evelyn.  "  She's 
a  much  better  actress  than  I  am." 

Miss  Finley  looked  as  if  she  was  going  to  say 
something;    then  she  hesitated. 

"  She's  a  charming  Celia,"  she  quietly  remarked. 
"  And  she's  a  lovely  woman,  they  say."  Then 
Miss  Finley  went  on :  "  The  parts  are  all  filled, 
except  Phoebe.  We  haven't  been  able  to  get  any 
one  for  that." 

"  I  know  a  little  girl  who  could  do  it  beautifully, 
Madge  Guernsey.  She  was  with  us  last  season. 
Have  you  ever  seen  her  ?  " 

"  Madge  Guernsey,  Madge  Guernsey,"  Miss  Fin- 
ley repeated,  biting  her  card-case.  "  Was  she  the 
one  that  played  the  fairy  in  *  Aphrodite '  two  or 
three  years  ago  ?  " 

"  Yes ;   that  was  her  first  part." 

"Do  you  think  she  could  do  Phoebe?  Has  she 
ever  played  a  Shakespearean  part  ?  " 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»      107 

"  No,  but  I'm  sure  she  could.  Besides,  she's 
very  young  and  pretty,  and  she'd  look  Phoebe  to 
perfection." 

"  Oh,  then  it's  all  right.  Where  does  she  live? 
I'll  wire  her." 

While  Evelyn  was  scribbling  Madge's  address 
on  a  card,  she  said :  "  I've  just  been  writing  to  her, 
but  I  haven't  sent  the  letter  off  yet." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  you  wrote  her  for 
us,  dear." 

Miss  Finley  asked  a  few  polite  questions  about 
Evelyn's  stage  life.  Did  she  like  it?  And  was  she 
glad  to  be  back  in  Boston?  Did  she  find  acting 
wearing?  Or  was  she  one  of  those  who  didn't  feel 
the  parts  they  played?  When  Evelyn  answered 
these  and  other  questions,  the  journalist  rose  from 
the  rocker  and  shook  out  her  skirts.  "  I  must  go," 
she  said,  with  her  little  smile. 

Miss  Finley  stood  musingly  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  "  I  am  so  sorry  for  you  —  about  that  pocket- 
book." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Evelyn. 

"  You  haven't  found  it,  have  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I've  given  up  all  hope  of  finding  it." 

"  Are  you  engaged  again  ?  "  the  journalist  asked, 
thoughtfully,  looking  into  Evelyn's  eyes,  and  hold- 
ing the  card-case  at  her  lips.  "  To  that  charming 
Mr.  Seymour  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not,"  Evelyn  replied,  coldly,  feeling 
the  blood  rush  to  her  face. 

Miss  Finley  nodded  her  head  slowly  three  or  four 
times.     She  seemed  to  be  in  deep  thought. 

"  Good-bye,  dear,"  she  said,  almost  absent-mind- 
edly, as  if  thinking  out  a  paragraph. 


io8      «f»      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ♦$» 

As  soon  as  Miss  Finley  left  the  house,  Evelyn 
felt  ashamed  of  having  hesitated  about  accepting 
the  part  of  Rosalind.  It  was  absurd  of  her  not 
to  jump  at  such  a  chance;  and  Miss  Finley  was 
probably  laughing  at  her  now.  She  wrote  at  once 
to  Madge  about  the  performance,  and  in  the  after- 
noon she  sent  a  note  to  the  journalist,  saying  she 
would  play  the  part  of  Rosalind  with  very  great 
pleasure. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  Seymour 
appeared  at  Appleby  Terrace.  He  had  just  come  up 
from  Scituate,  and  he  had  brought  Mr.  Marble  with 
him.  Marble  had  acted  the  low  comedy  part  for 
the  first  season  in  "  The  Flame  of  Life,"  and  he 
passed  each  summer  at  Cohasset.  Evelyn  was  glad 
to  see  her  old  comrade,  but  she  felt  sorry  that  he 
had  chosen  to  call  while  in  the  sentimental  stage  of 
intoxication.  The  two  actors  had  evidently  been 
celebrating  their  reunion.  The  only  betrayal  Sey- 
mour gave  was  a  very  red  face,  which,  however, 
might  have  been  due  to  sunburn,  and  a  strong  odour 
of  peppermint.  Mr.  Marble  would  have  placed  a 
paternal  kiss  on  Evelyn's  lips  if  she  had  given  him 
any  encouragement.  The  boys  were  delighted  to 
meet  him  again;  they  had  often  applauded  his  re- 
markably fine  performances,  and  they  had  boasted  to 
their  friends  of  their  acquaintance  with  him.  In 
his  periods  of  sobriety,  Mr,  Marble,  like  many  co- 
medians, was  of  a  melancholy  turn  of  mind.  Even 
now,  he  tried  to  carry  his  stout  little  figure  with 
an  air  of  dignity,  and,  in  presence  of  the  ladies, 
to  throw  into  his  face  an  expression  of  deep  serious- 
ness. After  polite  inquiries  about  Evelyn's  season, 
he  devoted  himself  to  Mrs.  Bowen,  whom  he  greatly 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      109 

admired;  he  used  to  say  that  she  was  a  "noble" 
woman.  The  boys  joined  in  the  conversation,  form- 
ing a  httle  circle  of  admirers  around  him. 

"  An'  how  is  Mr.  Bowen  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a 
musical  Irish  inflection.  When  Mrs.  Bowen  re- 
plied that  he  was  well,  Mr.  Marble  went  on: 

"  Ah,  it's  him  that  has  the  oie  for  business.  I 
s'pose  he's  still  sellin'  di'mon's." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  slightly  flushing;. 
Though  she  appreciated  the  advantages  of  her  hus- 
band's trade,  she  hated  all  reference  to  it. 

"  Well,  well,  it's  a  great  business,  a  great  busi- 
ness, the  di'mon'  business  is.  Are  ye  fond  of  jew- 
elry yourself,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  No.     I  never  wear  jewelry." 

"  Now  isn't  that  strange?  Not  to  like  jew'ls,  an* 
your  husband  in  the  business,  an'  yer  could  get  'em 
for  nothing." 

"  Not  exactly  for  nothing"  said  Mrs.  Bowen, 
laughing. 

"  You're  thinking  of  stage  jewels,"  said  Ned. 
"  You  can  get  stage  jewels  for  nothing." 

Evelyn  and  Harold  Seymour  had  walked  down 
to  the  other  end  of  the  porch. 

"  So  you're  going  to  play  Rosalind  ?  "  Seymour 
remarked. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

He  took  several  puffs  of  his  cigarette,  making 
the  sparks  fly.  "  Miss  Finley,"  he  said.  "  Miss 
Finley's  a  great  friend  of  mine.  She's  going  to 
give  me  a  lot  of  free  *  ads  '  this  summer.  She  told 
me  I  was  worth  more  space  to  her  than  any  one  else 
at  Cohasset." 

A  loud  peal  of  laughter  came  from  the  group  on 


no     ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

the  porch.  Mrs.  Bowen  looked  embarrassed;  she 
was  fond  of  Ned,  but  she  disliked  his  irreverence, 
and  she  did  not  enjoy  the  spectacle  of  a  maudlin 
actor  at  the  mercy  of  a  thoughtless  boy. 

Seymour  followed  Evelyn  across  the  piazza,  and 
seated  himself  behind  her. 

"  Do  take  Mr.  Marble  away,"  Mrs.  Bowen  whis- 
pered to  him.  "  Can't  you  see  the  state  he's  in  ? 
Ned  Osgood  is  making  a  fool  of  him." 

Seymour  rose  slowly.  "  I  think  we'd  better  be 
getting  back  to  the  hotel,  Tom." 

But  the  comedian  had  beg^n  to  discuss  the  com- 
ing performance  of  "  As  You  Like  It,"  and  he 
wished  to  continue.  He  was  delighted  to  hear  that 
Evelyn  had  decided  to  undertake  Rosalind. 

"  It'll  be  a  trate  to  me  to  play  with  yer,  dearie," 
he  said.  "  In  the  part  of  the  Clown,  I'll  be  in  me 
element." 

"  Won't  it  be  great  to  hear  the  Clown  talk  with 
a  brogue?  "  said  Ned,  to  the  annoyance  of  Evelyn, 
who  knew  how  sensitive  her  old  friend  was. 

"  I  never  have  a  brogue  on  the  stage,  me  lad," 
he  explained,  good-humouredly. 

"  But  how  about  the  open  air  ?  "  Ned  insisted. 

"  Begad,  I  niver  thought  of  that.  But  every- 
thing goes  at  charity  performances." 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  in  it,"  Ned  went  on.  "  Why 
can't  I  ?    Why  can't  we  all  go  on  as  supes  ?  " 

The  boys  welcomed  the  suggestion.  "  That 
would  be  great,"  said  Roscoe. 

"  I  think  we  can  manage  it,"  said  Seymour,  "  if 
you'll  only  behave  yourself,  Ned.  None  of  your 
guying." 

"  Oh,  I'll  be  good." 


*?»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^      iii 

Mr.  Marble  had  begun  to  give  signs  of  extreme 
lassitude,  and  Mrs.  Bowen  whispered  to  Seymour 
that  it  would  be  a  good  time  to  carry  him  off  now. 
Seymour  determined  to  resort  to  guile. 

"  Feel  like  another  drink,  Tom?  "  he  asked. 

The  comedian  brightened.  "  Don't  know  but  I 
do,"  he  replied,  genially. 

"  Well,  we'll  have  to  go  over  to  the  hotel  for  it. 
It's  time  for  us  to  go,  anyway.'* 

Mr.  Marble  straightened  himself  out  with  an 
effort.     "  I  s'pose  it  is." 

"  I'll  run  over  the  part  with  you  any  time  you 
like,"  said  Seymour  to  Evelyn,  as  they  started  down 
the  road. 

"  Oh,  there's  no  hurry.  I  don't  even  know  the 
lines  yet.  You  know  I  never  played  my  part 
before." 

"  It's  three  years  since  I  did  Orlando ;  but  I  g^ess 
it'll  come  back  easy  enough." 


XVI. 

That  night  it  rained,  and  most  of  the  boarders 
at  Appleby  Terrace  stayed  indoors.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments Mr.  Appleby  came  into  the  parlour  to  con- 
gratulate Evelyn  on  having  been  chosen  for  the 
part  of  Rosalind  in  the  open-air  performance.  He 
always  had  the  news ;  how  he  obtained  it  no  one 
could  discover.  This  evening  he  sat  beside  Evelyn 
on  the  couch,  and  discussed  the  Rosalinds  he  had 
seen.  Mr.  Appleby  explained  to  Evelyn  some  bits 
of  business  that  Adelaide  Neilson  had  introduced 
into  the  part,  and  Evelyn  said  that  she  would  adopt 
them.  He  had  a  delightful  tact  in  imparting  in- 
formation; he  was  interesting  without  seeming 
didactic.  The  boys  and  Mrs.  Bowen,  as  well  as 
Evelyn,  listened  attentively.  Inspired  by  the  in- 
cense of  appreciation,  Mr.  Appleby  might  have 
passed  the  evening  in  talking,  if  his  wife  had  not 
sauntered  into  the  room  and  driven  him  precipi- 
tately away.  The  mere  appearance  of  his  wife  in 
his  presence  annihilated  his  dignity. 

"  When  this  business  kills  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ap- 
pleby to  Evelyn,  dropping  into  a  chair,  "  I'll  leave 
Appleby  to  you  in  my  will."  She  always  referred 
to  her  husband  as  "  Appleby,"  to  his  great  disgust. 
"  You  and  Mrs.  Bowen  are  the  only  ladies  in  the 
world  he  admires ;  and,  as  Mrs.  Bowen  is  married, 
he'll  have  to  take  you.    Perhaps  he'll  find  an  actress 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      113 

can  support  him  better  than  a  boarding-house- 
keeper," 

"  You'll  probably  live  much  longer  than  I  shall," 
said  Evelyn,  with  a  smile. 

"  Just  hear  the  child.  You'd  think  she  was 
eighty." 

"  It's  experience  that  makes  people  old,  isn't  it  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"  Then  I'm  as  old  as  Methuselah !  I've  known 
Appleby  for  thirty-two  years." 

Roscoe  Stearns  had  brought  down  from  his  room 
a  small  volume  of  Shakespeare,  and  Evelyn  read 
over  with  him  Rosalind's  scenes  in  the  first  act. 
Mrs.  Appleby  sat  and  listened,  fanning  herself  with 
the  sailor  cap. 

"  Roscoe  ought  to  play  with  you,"  she  said  to 
Evelyn.     "  He  reads  like  an  actor !  " 

Roscoe  flushed.  "  Reading  and  acting  are  two 
very  different  things,"  he  said,  with  academic  pre- 
cision. 

The  next  day  was  cool,  and  Evelyn,  feeling  that 
she  was  performing  a  disagreeable  duty,  decided  to 
present  herself  at  the  house  on  the  hill.  Mrs.  Webb 
met  her  in  the  library,  and  gave  her  a  greeting 
that  was  quite  as  cordial,  if  less  effusive  than  her 
previous  one  had  been.     She  seemed  less  nervous. 

"  Mr.  Webb  is  in  the  greenhouse,"  she  said. 
"  He'll  come  in  presently.  I'm  glad  he  isn't  here, 
because  we  can  have  a  little  talk  together." 

She  waited  until  Evelyn  had  adjusted  herself 
comfortably  in  one  of  the  big  leather  chairs. 

"  I  wasn't  well  when  you  came  before ;  but  I 
did  want  to  see  you  so  much  that  I  had  to  come 
down.     I'm  awfully  obstinate,  and,  when  I  want 


114     *^      -^  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

to  do  a  thing,  I  must  do  it,  that's  all.  So,  I  ap- 
peared at  my  very  worst.  Oh,  you  needn't  deny 
it.  I  know  I  did.  I  was  horrid.  I  must  have  said 
a  lot  of  horrid  things ;  but  I'm  only  going  to  apol- 
ogise for  one,  and  that  is  what  I  said  about  Mrs. 
Bowen.  Oswald  was  awfully  shocked  when  I  told 
him.  I  tell  him  everything.  He  thought  I  ought 
to  send  you  a  note;  but  I  knew  it  would  be  better 
to  wait  and  tell  you  yourself.  But,  as  I  said,  I  was 
just  as  sick  as  I  could  be  that  day,  and  I  suppose 
I  had  to  vent  my  spleen  on  some  one.  I'm  sure 
she's  a  nice,  good  woman,  but  good  people  often 
have  a  very  bad  effect  on  me.  Now,  there  are  my 
relatives;  nearly  all  of  them  have  turned  against 
me  just  because,  when  I've  been  sick,  my  tongue's 
run  on,  and  I've  said  things  they  won't  forgive." 

She  smiled  pathetically  at  Evelyn.  Evelyn  hoped 
that  Mr.  Webb  would  come  in  soon.  She  dreaded 
hearing  the  invalid's  complaints.  As  Mrs.  Webb 
was  about  to  resume,  a  heavy  step  was  heard  from 
the  hall.  Then  Webb,  his  arms  covered  with  flow- 
ers,  entered  the  room. 

"  Oh !  "  he  said,  in  surprise.  "  I  didn't  hear  the 
bell.  I  can't  shake  hands  with  you,  you  see." 
When  he  had  deposited  the  flowers  in  an  enormous 
glass  bowl  on  the  table,  he  offered  his  hand.  "  You 
are  very  kind  to  come  and  see  two  solitary  people." 

"  Oswald,  I  wish  you  had  stayed  away  longer," 
exclaimed  the  invalid.  "  I've  a  great  deal  more  to 
say  to  Miss  Johnson." 

"  But  can't  you  say  it  before  me  ?  No  secrets  so 
soon,  I  hope." 

"  Well,  as  long  as  you're  here,  you  may  stay," 
she  conceded. 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»      115 

"  A  man  is  always  in  the  way,"  he  said,  with  a 
smile,  turning  to  Evelyn. 

"  Some  men  are,  dear.  But  you're  only  in  the 
way  sometimes." 

Mrs.  Webb  turned  to  Evelyn.  "  I've  been  read- 
ing a  horrid  book  to-day,"  she  said.  "  One  of  those 
stories  where  women  are  immolated  on  account  of 
their  conscience.  Aren't  they  dreadful?  Oh,  I 
wish  women  didn't  have  any  consciences.  I  should 
be  ever  so  much  happier  if  I  didn't  have  any." 

"  But  what  a  queer  world  it  would  be,  dear,"  said 
Webb,  "  if  we  were  all  without  consciences.  Then 
we'd  never  be  sure  of  our  purses." 

"  It  would  be  ever  so  much  nicer,"  she  insisted, 
inconsequently. 

"  A  conscience,"  Webb  went  on,  "  is  a  very  deli- 
cate instrument.  It  gets  out  of  gear  as  easily  as 
a  finely  constructed  watch.  It  grows  too  sensitive 
or  too  sluggish  with  the  least  provocation.  I  wish 
that  we  could  have  conscience-doctors.  There 
wouldn't  be  half  so  much  illness  and  misery  in  the 
world  then." 

"  Oswald  is  just  as  bad  as  I  am  on  the  subject. 
Only  he  thinks  about  consciences  in  general,  and  I 
think  about  one  conscience  in  particular." 

"  Sometimes  I  think  about  my  own,  dear,"  he 
protested,  with  a  laugh. 

"  But  more  often  you  think  about  other  people's. 
I  believe  everybody  has  a  right  to  look  out  for  his 
own,  and  do  as  he  pleases  with  it." 

"  So  do  I,  dear.  But  we  ought  to  be  taught  just 
how  to  deal  with  our  consciences.  Some  of  us  don't 
know  how." 

"  Mr.  Webb  wastes  a  great  deal  of  time  over 


ii6      «^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

these  subtleties,  Miss  Johnson.  You  mustn't  let 
him  ensnare  you.  I  think  the  best  we  can  do  is  to 
fight  our  own  battles,  and  let  others  fight  theirs." 

Webb  laughed  again.  "  What  a  selfish  doc- 
trine!" 

"  But  we  must  be  selfish  in  this  world.  We  were 
put  here  to  develop  ourselves." 

"  But  most  of  our  wise  men  believe  that  the  best 
way  to  develop  ourselves  is  to  help  others  to  develop 
themselves." 

"  Now,  Oswald,  that's  only  a  simple,  old-fash- 
ioned doctrine  put  into  outlandish  words." 

"  It's  the  doctrine  that  Christianity  is  founded 
on,"  he  replied,  smiling. 

Mrs.  Webb  turned  suddenly  to  Evelyn.  "  Do 
you  think  Christianity  has  done  the  world  any  good, 
Miss  Johnson  ?  " 

"  I've  never  doubted  it,"  Evelyn  answered,  be- 
traying astonishment. 

"  Now,  that's  the  kind  of  thing  Mr.  Webb's  al- 
ways thinking  and  talking  about.  Do  you  wonder 
that  I'm  worn  to  a  shadow  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a 
smile.  "  Sometimes  I  get  so  confused !  I  wonder 
if  anything  in  the  world  is  good.  I  even  wonder 
if  my  huslDand  is." 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  be,  dear," 

"  You  mustn't  believe  him,  Miss  Johnson.  He 
knows  that  he's  very  good.  I've  told  him  so  often 
enough,  and  he  always  relies  on  my  judgment  — 
except  where  books  are  concerned.  I  believe  that 
all  books  ought  to  be  cheerful." 

"  Then  we  should  have  to  give  up  a  good  many 
really  great  books,  shouldn't  we  ? "  Webb  said, 
quietly.    "  Still,  Darwin  used  to  say  that  all  novel- 


♦f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      *^      117 

ists  who  made  their  stories  end  unsatisfactorily 
ought  to  be  killed." 

"  Well,  I  don't  say  that,"  said  Mrs.  Webb.  "  But 
I  say  that  all  bad  books  should  be  suppressed." 

"  It  would  be  so  hard  to  decide  what  was  good 
and  what  was  bad,"  Evelyn  remarked. 

"  Ah,  you're  right  there,"  Webb  agreed.  "  That's 
just  the  difficulty.  We're  getting  too  complex. 
By  and  by  we  sha'n't  be  able  to  unravel  things, 
and  we  shall  have  to  go  back  to  simple  ways." 

"  Oswald's  always  talking  about  simplicity,"  said 
Mrs.  Webb.  "  I  think  it  is  all  affectation.  I  want 
things  to  be  complex.  It's  ever  so  much  more 
exciting." 

"  We  should  get  rid  of  ever  so  many  of  our 
troubles  and  our  doubts  if  life  were  simpler,"  Webb 
went  on.  "  We  should  find  that  we  really  agreed 
about  nearly  all  of  the  things  we  quarrel  over.  We 
spend  too  much  time  in  pointing  out  differences. 
But,  my  dear,  I  am  afraid  we're  boring  Miss  John- 
son with  our  theories." 

The  invalid  laughed.  "  With  your  theories,  Os- 
wald. I  haven't  any.  I  accept  life  as  it  is.  And 
it  seems  quite  good  enough  to  me.  I  only  wish  I 
could  enjoy  it.  Now  if  I  were  like  Miss  Johnson, 
I  should  be  perfectly  happy." 

"  Without  a  husband,  you  mean,"  said  Webb, 
with  a  smile. 

"  No,  I  should  still  keep  you,  dear.  But  I  should 
like  to  have  Miss  Johnson's  youth  and  health  and 
talent.  It  seems  so  wonderful,  so  wonderful,  your 
life,"  she  went  on,  looking  at  Evelyn  with  pathetic 
envy. 


1 1 8      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

"  But  it  really  isn't  half  so  fine  as  it  seems,"  said 
Evelyn.     "  The  glamour  disappears  very  soon." 

"  But  the  excitement,  the  excitement !  How  ex- 
hilarating it  must  be!  Oh,  dear!  It  can't  be  that 
you  are  pessimistic,"  said  Mrs.  Webb,  with  a  laugh. 
"  Oswald,  Miss  Johnson  must  be  in  love.  Who 
is  he.  Miss  Johnson?  Some  splendid,  handsome 
actor?" 

Evelyn  shook  her  head.  "  Miss  Johnson  is  in 
love  with  her  art,"  said  Webb,  with  the  air  of  mak- 
ing a  joke.  Then  he  turned  to  Evelyn.  "  Are 
you  studying  some  new  parts  now  ?  " 

"  I  am  working  on  Rosalind.  For  the  out-of- 
door  performance,  you  know." 

"  No,  we  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Webb.  "  What 
out-of-door  performance?" 

Evelyn  explained,  and  Mrs.  Webb  clasped  her 
hands.  "  Isn't  that  splendid,  Oswald !  Oh,  how 
I  should  like  to  go !  Perhaps  I  can.  Mrs.  Steven- 
son's isn't  so  far  away.  Besides,  I  could  rest  in  her 
house  if  I  got  tired." 

"  We  know  Mrs.  Stevenson  very  well,"  Webb 
explained. 

"  Oh,  wouldn't  It  be  delightful !  And  I'm  so  glad 
that  you  are  to  be  the  Rosalind.  Just  think  of  it, 
Oswald,  we  have  her  here,  right  before  us,  in  our 
house  —  Rosalind !  "  Mrs.  Webb  seemed  like  a 
child. 

"  It's  a  great  honour,"  said  her  husband,  enter- 
ing into  her  mood.  "  Rosalind  didn't  call  on  many 
people." 

Mrs.  Webb  questioned  Evelyn  about  the  details 
of  the  performance.  Who  were  to  take  part  ?  Mr. 
Seymour  as  Orlando  ?    Hadn't  she  heard  that  name 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      119 

before?  Oh,  yes,  yes!  He  was  a  friend  of  Miss 
Johnson's.  And  that  brilHant  Miss  Gordon  was 
to  be  the  Ceha?  Did  Oswald  remember  her  in 
"Mary  Stuart"  with  Mrs.  Edwards?  They  had 
both  been  thrilled  by  her  performance  of  Elizabeth. 
Perhaps  they  should  meet  her.  Perhaps  Miss  John- 
son would  bring  her  to  call.  What  wonderful  peo- 
ple Miss  Johnson  must  know!  Oswald  and  she 
had  talked  for  weeks  about  Miss  Gordon's  reading 
of  the  blank  verse.  He  fairly  raved  over  her! 
And  would  they  have  the  rehearsals  in  the  open 
air?  Mrs.  Webb  wished  that  she  could  be  an 
actress.  Oswald  needn't  laugh.  She  was  in  ear- 
nest. 

When  she  had  finished  her  rhapsody,  Webb  said, 
jokingly,  "  I  should  rather  like  to  take  part  myself." 

"  You  might  play  the  melancholy  Jacques,"  his 
wife  suggested. 

"  I  could  play  the  Wrestler,  I  should  like  im- 
mensely to  have  a  bout  with  Mr.  Seymour." 

"  Why  don't  you  ?  "  said  his  wife,  catching  at 
the  idea.  "  People  would  come  from  miles  around 
to  see  you.     It  would  bring  money  to  the  fund." 

Webb  laughed ;  then  he  changed  the  subject  so 
suddenly  that  Evelyn  had  a  feeling  of  discomfort 
which  she  could  not  explain. 


XVII. 

The  next  day  Evelyn  received  letters  from 
Madge  Guernsey  and  Helen  Gordon.  Madge  was 
delighted  at  the  prospect  of  playing  Phoebe.  It 
would  be  a  chance  for  her  to  get  away  for  a  little 
while  from  Jimmy  Wise,  As  she  had  already  writ- 
ten Evelyn,  Jimmy  had  become  altogether  too  per- 
sistent; he  had  shown  a  disposition  to  demand  a 
"  Yes,"  or  a  "  No."  That  was  what  she  hated  in 
men;  they  didn't  know  when  to  let  well  enough 
alone.  If  Jimmy  kept  on,  she  should  have  to  tell 
him  "  No,"  flatly ;  still,  he  was  her  only  refuge 
during  the  summer  at  Providence.  It  was  annoy- 
ing to  have  him  act  so,  for  it  really  would  be  very 
stupid  during  the  evenings  without  him.  He  had 
threatened  to  go  to  Cohasset  and  spend  a  week 
while  she  was  there;  but  she  had  told  him  that  he 
would  simply  be  in  the  way;  she  should  have  to 
give  all  her  time  to  rehearsals;  but  he  might  run 
up  for  the  performance.  Madge  added  in  a  post- 
script that  she  should  be  delighted  to  accept  Eve- 
lyn's invitation  to  stay  with  her.  And  were  those 
lovely  boys  there,  and  that  nice  Mrs.  Bowen  that 
she  had  talked  about  so  much  last  season?  Madge 
felt  awfully  sorry  about  that  money.  It  would 
have  killed  her. 

Miss  Gordon  wrote  that  she  was  sure  that  Evelyn 

120 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      121 

would  do  far  better  with  RosaHnd  than  either  Mrs. 
West  or  Mrs.  Edwards  had  done.  In  the  first  place, 
Evelyn  would  look  the  part,  and  then  she  would 
read  it  well.  Miss  Gordon  had  heard  some  charm- 
ing things  about  Evelyn ;  Saunderson  had  praised 
her  Mabel  Annerley  to  Mrs.  Freeman ;  she  had  also 
heard  that  Saunderson  was  hesitating  between 
Belle  Livingstone  and  Evelyn  for  the  second  part. 
She  did  hope  Evelyn  would  get  it.  That  lovely 
Miss  Finley  had  written  something  about  Madge 
and  the  part  of  Phcebe,  but  Miss  Finley's  hand- 
writing was  so  bad  that  she  had  been  unable  to 
make  out  what  was  meant.  Miss  Finley  always 
seemed  to  be  in  such  a  desperate  hurry.  Miss 
Gordon  was  looking  forward  to  meeting  her.  She 
was  having  a  lovely  time  on  Staten  Island.  The 
people  at  the  hotel  were  making  everything  of  her! 
A  great  many  of  them  had  seen  her  from  the  front. 

Evelyn  set  to  work  on  Rosalind  in  earnest.  Much 
might  depend  on  her  success  with  it.  If  Saunder- 
son held  off  engaging  some  one  for  Mathilde  in 
"  Deception,"  he  might  be  impressed  by  favourable 
notices  of  her  Rosalind  in  the  Boston  papers,  and 
give  the  part  to  her. 

She  soon  fell  back  into  the  old  routine  of  her 
life  at  Cohasset.  Nearly  every  morning,  when  the 
tide  suited,  she  bathed  with  the  boys  and  with 
Harold  Seymour.  Mrs.  Bowen  never  could  be  in- 
duced to  enter  the  water;  she  said  it  gave  her  pal- 
pitation of  the  heart,  and  she  enjoyed  the  fun  just 
as  much  from  looking  on.  Seymour  and  the  boys 
were  good  swimmers;  it  was  Roscoe  who  had 
taught  Evelyn  her  first  strokes.  Ned  occasionally 
showed  a  disposition  to  "  duck  "  her ;   but  he  was 


122      ♦      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ♦ 

always  prevented  by  his  two  friends,  who  pounced 
upon  him,  and  for  punishment  held  him  under  the 
water  until  he  was  out  of  breath.  In  the  afternoon 
Evelyn  worked  on  her  part  either  in  Mrs.  Bowen's 
room,  or  with  Roscoe  on  the  porch,  or  occasionally 
on  the  small  sloop  yacht  which  Seymour  had  hired 
for  the  season. 

Seymour  used  to  enjoy  listening  to  Roscoe's  re- 
hearsals with  Evelyn.  When  they  sat  under  the 
trees,  he  liked  to  lie  on  the  ground,  or,  when  they 
were  on  the  yacht,  to  stretch  himself  on  deck,  and 
listen  to  the  elaborate  discussions  over  disputed 
readings  and  involved  meanings  in  the  text.  He 
had  a  fine  scorn  for  these  subtleties;  they  seemed 
to  him  a  waste  of  time;  he  could  interpret  lumi- 
nously a  line  that  he  only  vaguely  understood,  rely- 
ing almost  wholly  on  his  intuition  and  on  his 
facility.  Evelyn,  on  the  contrary,  had  to  study  a 
speech  very  carefully  to  understand  it  in  all  its 
bearings,  before  she  could  properly  interpret  it. 
She  used  to  make  Roscoe  read  the  blank  verse  again 
and  again,  in  order  that  she  might  catch  the  rhythm. 
Seymour  could  recite  the  verse  correctly  at  the  first 
reading.  He  had  never  understood  why  one  of  his 
friends,  a  good  actor  in  parts  of  the  modern  school, 
had  been  obliged  to  throw  up  a  lucrative  engage- 
ment as  leading  support  to  Mrs.  Edwards,  who 
gave  several  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  simply  be- 
cause he  could  not  master  the  blank  verse. 

On  the  day  when  Madge  was  to  come,  Mrs. 
Bowen,  Evelyn,  and  the  boys  went  down  to  the 
boat-landing  at  Nantasket  to  meet  her.  They  had 
some  difficulty  in  finding  her  in  the  crowd  on  the 
steamer;   but  at  last  Evelyn  singled  her  out,  and 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     «f»      123 

in  a  moment  they  were  in  each  other's  embrace. 
It  was  a  warm  day,  and  Madge  seemed  hot  and 
tired.  Mrs.  Bowen  and  the  boys  eyed  her  eagerly, 
and  they  all  looked  disappointed.  Madge  might 
be  pretty  on  the  stage,  but  she  certainly  didn't  ap- 
pear to  good  advantage  at  this  moment. 

"  I  know  I'm  a  guy,  dear,"  she  whispered  to 
Evelyn,  "  but  I  can't  help  it.  I've  been  shopping 
all  the  morning  in  Boston,  and  I'm  played  out.  How 
is  everything?     Got  your  engagement  yet?" 

Evelyn  shook  her  head.  "  I  haven't  heard  a 
word,"  she  said. 

"  Dear  me,  I  hoped  Saunderson  would  engage 
you.  But  I  know  Belle  Livingstone  hasn't  signed 
with  him.  She  wrote  me  the  other  day  she'd  an 
offer  to  go  out  with  one  of  Dan  Magruder's  road 
companies." 

Mrs.  Bowen  had  come  up  smiling,  and  the  boys 
followed.  "  So  this  is  Mrs.  Bowen,"  said  Madge. 
"  I'm  so  glad  to  meet  you  at  last.  I've  heard  lots 
of  nice  things  about  you.  And  are  these  the  boys? 
And  Mr.  Osgood;  is  this  Mr.  Osgood?  How  do 
you  do?  You're  Ned,  aren't  you?  I  know  all 
about  you.  I  advise  you  not  to  try  to  guy  me.  I'm 
dangerous.     Ain't  I,  Evelyn  ?  " 

Ned  and  Madge  were  well  acquainted  before  the 
stage  had  carried  them  half  the  distance  to  Appleby 
Terrace.  "  Oh,  I  just  adore  this  place,"  Madge 
exclaimed,  as  they  rolled  along  the  Jerusalem  Road. 
"  Look  at  those  lovely  rocks,  and  look  at  the  sea, 
will  you?  See  here,  what's  that  thing  out  there, 
sticking  right  up  out  of  the  water  ?  " 

"That's  Minot's,"  Ned  replied.  "Minot's 
Light." 


124     *^      -^  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

"  Why,  of  course,  I've  often  heard  of  it.  Ain't 
it  grand?" 

"  What  —  the  lighthouse?  " 

"  The  sea,  I  mean ;  the  sea.  I  don't  beHeve 
you're  a  bit  poetic." 

"  I'm  awfully  poetic,"  said  Ned. 

"  Don't  believe  him,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen.  "  Gerald 
is  the  poetic  one.    He  writes  the  prettiest  verses." 

Gerald  blushed  furiously.  "  They're  only  dog- 
gerel, Miss  Guernsey." 

"  Well,  write  some  doggerel  about  me,  will 
you?"  Madge  asked,  coquettishly.  Then  she  said, 
pointing  at  Ned,  "  I  knew  he  was  guying.  He  ain't 
got  any  more  poetry  in  him  —  " 

"  Oh,  Miss  Guernsey !  "  Ned  remonstrated. 

"  I'm  poetic,"  Madge  went  on,  addressing  Gerald. 

"  Are  you  ?  "  said  Gerald,  blushing  again.  Ger- 
ald was  unused  to  badinage  with  girls,  and  he  had 
never  met  any  one  like  Madge  before. 

"  Of  course  I  am.  Now,  you  ought  to  have  said : 
*  I  knew  you  were  poetic  the  minute  I  set  eyes  on 
you.' " 

Gerald  laughed.     "  I'll  say  it  next  time." 

"  Oh !  "  Mrs.  Bowen  exclaimed,  "  you're  deli- 
cious." 

"  I'm  used  to  a  great  deal  of  attention,"  Madge 
continued.  "  Now  I  hope  you  boys  are  going  to 
be  awfully  nice  to  me  while  I'm  here." 

When  Mrs.  Appleby  appeared  on  the  porch  to 
welcome  Madge,  Evelyn  noticed  with  intense  re- 
lief that  she  had  not  put  on  her  sailor  cap.  Evelyn 
looked  around  for  Mr.  Appleby,  but  he  was  not  in 
sight;  she  felt  a  little  uneasy  with  regard  to  the 
effect  Madge  would  have  on  his  nerves. 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^      125 

Madge  insisted  upon  going  to  her  room  at  once, 
"  to  put  on  some  decent  things."  She  did  not 
reappear  till  dinner-time.  Then  she  wore  a  simple 
white  muslin  gown,  and  her  light  hair  was  coiled 
tightly  at  the  back  of  her  head.  Mrs.  Bowen  and 
the  boys,  as  well  as  Evelyn,  were  delighted.  Mrs. 
Bowen  told  her  that  she  was  "  a  picture." 

After  dinner  Seymour  called  at  Appleby  Terrace, 
and  suggested  that  they  go  for  a  sail.  The  night 
was  warm  and  clear,  and  there  was  a  three-quarters 
moon.  There  was  only  a  faint  breeze,  and  the  boat 
did  little  more  than  drift  on  the  placid  surface  of 
the  sea.  In  the  distance  Minot's  Light  gleamal 
intermittently.  Madge  wanted  to  know  why  it 
kept  going  out  all  the  time.  Roscoe  explained  that 
it  was  a  revolving  light,  and  entered  into  an  elab- 
orate description  of  its  workings,  which  made 
Madge  yawn.  Roscoe  was  full  of  all  kinds  of  in- 
formation, gathered  from  observation  and  reading. 
Gerald,  on  the  contrary,  looked  at  things  from  the 
aesthetic  point  of  view  only;  he  concerned  himself 
with  effects,  never  caring  to  investigate  causes  or 
details. 

Madge  put  her  hand  over  the  side  of  the  boat, 
and,  as  the  water  ran  through  her  fingers,  she  be- 
gan to  sing  an  air  from  one  of  the  popular  comic 
operas.  When  she  finished,  the  boys  applauded 
her  vigorously,  and  cried,  "  More,  more,"  after  the 
fashion  of  the  students  at  Cambridge  when  the 
Glee  Club  sang  in  the  college  yard  on  spring  nights. 
Then  Madge  sang  song  after  song,  and  Seymour, 
who  had  given  the  tiller  to  Roscoe,-  curled  himself 
up  on  the  little  deck,  with  his  chin  near  Evelyn's 
elbow.    The  waves  sparkled  in  the  moonlight,  and 


126      *^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

lapped  softly  the  sides  of  the  yacht;  on  shore  the 
lights  from  the  cottages  twinkled,  and  the  air 
pulsed  with  the  tones  of  Madge's  voice. 

"  Doesn't  this  remind  you  of  last  summer  ? " 
Seymour  whispered. 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  it,"  Evelyn  replied,  almost 
inaudibly. 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  it,"  he  said,  "  and  I've 
been  thinking  what  a  —  what  a  fool  I've  been." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  Are  you  ready  for  the  first  rehearsal  to-mor- 
row ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  know  my  lines.    Do  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'll  have  them.  I'll  run  them  over  to- 
morrow morning."  For  a  moment  he  was  silent. 
Then  he  went  on :  "I  think  you're  going  to  make 
a  hit." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  It's  a  great  chance  for  you." 

"Too  great." 

"  Oh,  no.     You'll  be  up  to  it." 

Madge  began  another  song,  and  they  listened 
for  a  moment. 

"  Have  you  got  anything  yet,"  Seymour  whis- 
pered, "  for  next  season  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  want  anything."  Then  he 
went  on  rapidly :  "  I've  been  trying  not  to  say 
anything,  and  I  intended  to  keep  quiet  for  a  long 
time  yet;  but  I  can't  any  longer.  Don't  you  see 
that  I  care  for  you  more  than  I  ever  did?  It's 
awfully  rough,  on  a  man  to  be  kept  in  suspense 
this   way.      Most   men    wouldn't  —  they   couldn't 


-^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^      127 

stand  it.  But  I  know  I  deserve  it.  I  don't  com- 
plain.   Only  you  might  let  me  down  a  little  easier." 

He  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  she  said  nothing. 
Her  eyes  wandered  to  the  shore,  and  in  the  dis- 
tance, high  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  she  saw  a  faint 
light  in  the  cottage  of  the  Webbs.  Mrs.  Webb  had 
probably  gone  to  bed,  and  the  light  came  from  the 
library  where  her  husband  was  probably  reading. 
His  life  was  so  different  from  any  life  she  had  ever 
known ;  it  had  opened  up  a  new  world  to  her,  a 
world  of  thought  and  of  fancy,  where  one  might 
escape  from  a  life  of  uneasiness  and  care.  Seymour 
never  read  books;  his  thoughts  were  utterly  super- 
ficial. Yet  he  attracted  her  as  no  other  man  had 
ever  done,  but  with  an  attraction  that  gave  her  no 
sense  of  peace  or  security,  that  made  her  at  times 
feel  conscious  of  a  weakness  in  herself.  At  this 
moment  only  her  pride  prevented  her  from  saying 
she  would  forgive  and  ignore  the  past,  that  it  was 
too  hideous  to  remember,  that  she  would  take  him 
back  on  the  old  footing. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  fine  thing,"  he 
asked,  laughing  and  resting  his  head  on  his  arm, 
"  to  leave  the  stage  in  a  blaze  of  glory  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  miss  it  much,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"  Now,  if  you  were  to  retire  after  this  perform- 
ance, Miss  Finley  would  give  you  a  magnificent 
send-oflf." 

"  But  I  have  no  intention  of  retiring.  Something 
will  turn  up." 

"  Of  course  something  will,  if  you  want  it.  But 
why  go  on  drudging  on  the  road  when  you  can  —  " 

"When  I  can  what?" 


128      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis       ^ 

"  When  you  can  stay  in  New  York,  and  keep 
some  one  that  adores  you  in  the  right  track," 

"  He  ought  to  keep  himself  in  the  right  track." 

"  But  he  can't  without  you.  He's  only  a .  poor, 
weak,  good-natured  man.  His  good  nature  will 
ruin  him  —  unless  you  come  to  his  rescue.  You 
see  I  put  it  on  the  ground  of  common  charity." 

"  I  see  you  do." 

"  You  do  care  for  me  a  little,  don't  you, 
Evelyn?" 

"  I'll  think  about  it." 

"  It's  very  embarrassing  —  this  uncertainty." 

"What  uncertainty?" 

"  Why,  to  have  people  asking  all  the  time  whether 
you're  engaged  or  not.    They're  always  asking  me." 

"  They  don't  ask  me." 

"  But  you  know  they  keep  up  a  lot  of  thinking." 

"  I  know  they  do,"  Evelyn  said,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

Evelyn  suspected  that  Madge  kept  singing  to 
enable  Seymour  to  continue  his  whispering.  The 
whole  world  seemed  to  be  in  conspiracy  to  make 
her  take  him  back.  Mrs.  Bowen  was  the  chief 
conspirator.  Between  Mrs.  Bowen  and  Seymour 
a  friendship  had  grown  up;  they  were  always  hav- 
ing secret  conversations.  When  Madge  stopped 
singing,  Seymour  relieved  Roscoe  at  the  tiller.  The 
wind  had  died  down,  the  boat  had  ceased  to  move, 
and  the  sail  flapped  listlessly. 

"  I  hope  we  aren't  going  to  get  stuck  here  all 
night,"  said  Seymour. 

"  What  a  lark !  "  cried  Madge. 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  before  any  wind 
stirred,  and  Seymour  was  able  to  make  for  home. 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «$»      129 

As  they  climbed  the  hill  to  Appleby  Terrace,  they 
heard  the  Cohasset  town  clock  strike  twelve. 

"  That  is  just  like  being  on  the  road  again,  ain't 
it  ?  "  said  Madge  to  Evelyn,  as  they  entered  the 
house. 


XVIII. 

That  night  Evelyn  did  not  fall  asleep  till  the 
early  morning  light  entered  the  room.  Harold 
Seymour's  conversation  had  roused  her  to  a  sense  of 
her  position.  Since  her  arrival  at  Appleby  Terrace 
she  had  tried  not  to  think  of  her  relations  with  him ; 
she  had  been  content  to  let  things  take  their  own 
course.  She  almost  wished  he  had  not  spoken ;  she 
had  enjoyed  drifting.  For  a  while  she  had  almost 
ceased  to  worry  over  her  engagement  for  the  coming 
season ;  yet  the  time  was  rapidly  passing  when  most 
of  the  engagements  were  made;  if  she  did  not  secure 
something  within  a  fortnight  her  prospects  would 
be  very  dubious.  Since  the  beginning  of  her  career 
she  had  never  before  been  out  of  an  engagement. 
She  might  escape  from  her  difficulties  by  marrying ; 
this,  however,  would  be  a  miserable  compromise 
with  failure.  Deep  down  in  her  consciousness  she 
believed  that  it  was  only  a  question  of  time  when  she 
should  take  Harold  Seymour  back;  but  she  owed 
it  to  herself,  to  her  dignity,  to  punish  him.  Of 
late  he  had  seemed  so  different  from  what  he  had 
once  been;  perhaps  it  was  simply  that  she  had 
changed  herself,  or  that  she  regarded  him  from  a 
new  point  of  view.  Lately  she  had  begun  to  feel 
something  like  pity  for  him.  He  was  so  strong,  yet 
so  weak ;  so  handsome,  yet  at  times  almost  uninter- 

130 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      *^      131 

esting,  with  his  indifference  to  serious  matters  and 
his  Hght  talk.  She  had  begun  to  be  annoyed  by 
his  laclc  of  dignity,  his  famiharity  with  every  one 
he  met,  his  fondness  for  lounging.  She  tried  to 
excuse  him  by  telling  herself  that  the  theatrical  life 
made  a  man  undignified  and  flippant  and  lazy;  yet 
she  could  not  help  comparing  him  with  a  man  like 
Oswald  Webb.  Harold  Seymour's  qualities  were 
nearly  all  physical,  instinctive. 

The  rehearsals  on  Mrs.  Stevenson's  lawn  passed 
very  smoothly,  except  on  the  second  afternoon,  when 
it  rained,  and  the  actors  had  to  flee  indoors,  where 
their  hostess,  a  large  woman,  with  a  velvet  voice 
that  seemed  to  run  on  one  key,  gave  them  cakes  and 
tea  and  wine.  Miss  Finley  was  usually  present; 
but  she  never  interfered.  She  seemed  always  to 
be  absorbed  in  conversation  with  some  of  the  ladies, 
frequently  with  Helen  Gordon,  occasionally  with 
Madge  Guernsey.  Most  of  the  actors  had  played 
their  parts  before  and  knew  their  lines.  Seymour 
acted  with  an  ease  that  gave  confidence  to  Evelyn. 
Their  scenes  brought  them  constantly  together,  and 
when  they  were  not  acting  he  was  generally  sitting 
by  her  side  and  joking  with  some  of  the  other  players 
around  them.  At  the  rehearsals,  Mr.  Marble,  who 
frequently  betrayed  that  he  had  been  too  self-indul- 
gent, kept  complimenting  her  on  her  improvement, 
and  saying  that  before  long  he  should  see  her  star- 
ring. The  Stearns  boys,  who  had  at  first  been  eager 
to  take  part  in  the  performance,  lost  courage.  Ned 
Osgood,  however,  was  still  enthusiastic.  Madge 
had  fascinated  him,  and  in  the  absence  of  older  ad- 
mirers she  used  him  to  fetch  and  carry.  Of  the 
other  boys  she  stood  somewhat  in  awe;    she  told 


132      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

Evelyn  that  she  thought  they  were  "  dear  things," 
but  "  kind  of  queer."  She  was  puzzled  by  Gerald's 
moods,  by  his  fondness  for  going  off  alone  and 
sitting  on  the  rocks,  and  by  Roscoe's  studious  habits 
in  midsummer. 

The  Telegraph  of  the  Sunday  following  the  first 
rehearsal  betrayed  the  motive  of  Miss  Finley's  con- 
ferences with  the  actresses.  It  was  dotted  with  items 
relating  to  the  performers.  Evelyn  counted  six 
paragraphs  developed  from  remarks  that  she  had 
inadvertently  dropped  in  the  journalist's  presence, 
and  four  relating  to  herself,  to  the  dresses  she  wore 
at  the  beach,  including  a  description  of  her  bathing 
costume,  her  fondness  for  swimming,  her  continued 
presence  at  Appleby  Terrace,  and  her  probable  suc- 
cess with  the  Rosalind.  To  Miss  Gordon,  Miss 
Finley  gave  a  column  and  a  half,  which  included 
two  pictures;  Madge  Guernsey,  too,  came  in  for 
some  gratuitous  references,  but  not  enough,  Evelyn 
feared,  to  gratify  her  hunger  for  "  notices." 

If  the  weather  favoured,  the  performance  would 
be  given  on  Thursday  afternoon ;  in  case  of  rain,  it 
would  take  place  on  Saturday.  For  Wednesday 
morning  a  dress-rehearsal  had  been  called,  and  when 
Evelyn  arrived  at  Mrs.  Stevenson's  she  found  the 
grounds  arranged  for  the  performance.  At  some 
distance  from  the  house,  a  natural  stage  had  been 
made  by  a  semicircle  of  trees,  whence  the  actors 
were  to  emerge.  It  was  separated  from  the  area 
set  apart  for  the  spectators  by  a  band  of  ribbon  tied 
around  the  trunks  of  the  two  trees  at  either  end; 
the  seats  had  been  arranged  in  tiers,  like  seats  at 
a  circus.  As  Evelyn  glanced  at  the  out-of-door 
theatre,  she  was  seized  with  stage  fright.    She  pic- 


«tp»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      133 

tured  those  seats  crowded  with  a  critical  audience 
of  women  and  men,  the  bright-coloured  dresses  and 
the  red  parasols  of  the  women  gleaming  in  the  sun. 
She  wondered  if  she  could  make  herself  felt  in 
the  open  air,  with  the  sky  formidably  stretching 
above  her ;  her  art  might  not  be  "  subtle,"  as  Miss 
Gordon  had  once  characterised  it,  but  her  methods 
were  certainly  not  broad,  and  her  voice  was  light. 
In  an  open-air  performance  an  actor  should  try  for 
large  effects,  which  she  could  not  achieve.  How- 
ever, it  was  too  late  to  back  out  now. 


XIX. 

The  next  morning  Madge  woke  early  and,  jump- 
ing out  of  bed,  ran  eagerly  to  the  window.  "  Oh, 
it's  raining!  "  she  said,  peering  into  a  gray  mist. 

"Raining?"  Evelyn  repeated,  sleepily. 

"  What  a  shame !  They'll  have  to  put  off  the 
show." 

"  Is  it  raining  hard  ?  " 

"  No,  just  kind  of  misting." 

"What  time  is  it?" 

Madge  looked  at  her  watch.  "  Twenty  minutes 
of  seven." 

"  Then  it  will  probably  clear.  If  it  were  nine 
o'clock  I  should  be  afraid." 

The  rain  soon  ceased  and  the  sun  quickly  burned 
away  the  mist.  At  breakfast,  Mrs.  Bowen  offered 
congratulations  on  the  weather ;  she  was  much  more 
excited  about  the  performance  than  either  Evelyn 
or  Madge.  Evelyn  looked  forward  to  it  with  a 
nervousness  that  she  tried  hard  to  hide;  Madge 
anticipated  brilliant  press  notices. 

"  I  do  hope  that  woman  will  spread  herself  on 
this  thing,"  said  Madge.  "  I  intend  to  send  all  my 
notices  to  Saunderson." 

Harold  Seymour  called  a  little  before  noon.  He 
had  just  met  Rodney,  the  Wrestler,  and  had  arranged 
the  business  for  the  bout.    He  asked  Evelyn  if  she 

»34 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     «^      135 

were  nervous,  and  she  pressed  her  lips  together. 
Madge,  however,  declared  that  she  wasn't  in  the 
least  "  rattled :  "  if  she  only  looked  decent,  she'd  be 
all  right;  but  she  didn't  feel  sure  of  her  make-up 
in  the  open  air.  Mrs.  Bowen,  however,  would  see 
that  she  did  herself  justice.  In  spite  of  her  protesta- 
tions, Madge  betrayed  nervousness  by  dancing  up 
and  down  on  the  piazza  and  by  laughing  hysterically 
at  Ned's  jokes. 

Mrs.  Appleby  had  provided  an  early  luncheon  for 
Evelyn  and  Madge  and  Mrs.  Bowen.  She  was 
pleased  that  her  house  should  be  so  conspicu- 
ously represented  in  the  performance,  and  she 
showed  her  appreciation  of  her  gifted  boarders  by 
helping  to  wait  on  the  table.  In  her  Sunday  after- 
noon black  silk  and  white  lace  she  made  a  striking 
picture,  as  she  carried  plates  of  soup  and  vegetables 
from  the  pantry  door  to  the  table.  She  announced, 
with  mingled  scorn  and  gratification,  that  Mr. 
Appleby  had  consented  to  accompany  her  to  the 
performance. 

When  they  reached  Mrs.  Stevenson's  they  found 
Miss  Finley  uttering  ejaculations,  giving  instruc- 
tions, panting  with  excitement.  She  fairly  bloomed, 
as  some  plain  women  bloom  under  the  inspiration 
of  love;  she  looked  almost  pretty. 

"  Isn't  it  a  perfect  day !  "  she  said  to  Evelyn. 
"  You'll  find  everything  ready  for  you  in  your  tent. 
Mrs.  Stevenson's  maid  will  look  after  you  and  Miss 
Guernsey.  Miss  Gordon's  going  to  dress  in  one 
of  the  other  tents.  It's  more  convenient.  If  you 
want  anything  just  ask  for  it." 

Long  before  Evelyn  was  ready  for  the  first  act, 
the  audience  had  begun  to  assemble.     She  could 


136      ^     A  Daughter  of  Thespis        ♦ 

hear  the  laughing  and  talking;  she  wondered  why 
it  was  that  in  the  open  air  women  were  so  fond 
of  screaming.  Miss  Finley's  shrill  voice  could  be 
heard  from  all  directions ;  she  seemed  to  be  dividing 
her  attentions  between  the  audience  and  the  actors. 

Evelyn  made  a  striking  appearance  in  her  yellow 
brocade  gown,  with  a  broad  ruff  around  the  neck, 
and  Madge,  in  her  little  straw  hat  and  short  peas- 
ant's dress,  was  an  ideal  rustic.  Mrs.  Bowen  was 
delighted  with  the  result  of  her  efforts;  she  had 
refused  the  assistance  of  Mrs.  Stevenson's  maid; 
she  wanted  all  the  credit  of  her  friend's  adornment 
for  herself. 

When  they  left  the  tent  they  found  several  of 
the  performers  walking  about  under  the  trees  where 
they  were  sheltered  from  the  audience.  Near-by, 
Seymour  was  chatting  with  Mr.  Marble;  the  cos- 
tumed group  looked  so  peculiar  in  the  open  air  that 
Evelyn  and  Mrs.  Bowen  burst  out  laughing. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  had  strayed  into  another  century," 
Mrs.  Bowen  explained. 

"  You  look  very  stunning,"  Seymour  w^hispered 
to  Evelyn.    "  We  sha'n't  be  in  it  with  you." 

Evelyn  caught  up  the  train  of  her  dress  and 
started  to  walk  away. 

"  You  know  you've  made  me  a  promise,"  he  said. 

"  I  haven't  forgotten,"  she  replied,  turning  to 
go  back  to  the  tent  for  the  lace  handkerchief  she 
had  forgotten. 

On  her  return  she  looked  through  the  trees.  The 
seats  were  crowded  and  the  bright  dresses  and  para- 
sols of  the  ladies  gleamed  in  the  sunshine.  She  had 
some  difficulty  in  finding  Mrs.  Webb.  At  last,  in  a 
group  seated  on  chairs  placed  on  the  greensward, 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      137 

she  saw  Oswald  Webb,  seated  beside  his  wife.  Mrs. 
Webb  was  tastefully  dressed  in  lavender,  with  a 
lavender  bonnet,  and  looked  brighter  than  Evelyn 
had  ever  seen  her  look  before.  Evelyn  was  so 
hemmed  in  by  the  trees  that  no  one  could  see  her; 
but  she  could  see  Mrs.  Bowen  talking  with  Helen 
Gordon,  and  she  could  catch  glimpses  a  little  farther 
away  of  Madge  and  Ned  Osgood  rollicking  together. 

"  They  wanted  me  to  play  Rosalind,"  Helen 
Gordon  was  saying,  "  but  I  had  never  done  it  before, 
and  I  hated  to  get  up  in  it  in  hot  weather.  It  would 
have  been  such  a  bore.  So  I  said  I'd  do  Celia 
for  them.  I've  played  Celia  so  often  that  it's  like 
A  B  C  to  me.  Then  I  knew  they  had  asked  Mrs. 
West  to  do  it,  and  I  didn't  propose  to  take  it  after 
she'd  refused  it.    I  knew  just  what  she'd  say." 

Mrs.  Bowen  replied  in  a  voice  too  low  to  be 
overheard. 

"  Yes,"  Miss  Gordon  went  on,  "  I  feel  so  sorry 
for  her.  She's  a  lovely  girl;  but  she  hasn't  much 
talent,  you  know.  I  can't  understand  why  she  ever 
went  on  the  stage.  She'd  make  a  splendid  school- 
teacher, don't  you  think  so?  And  then  I  thought 
it  would  be  such  a  chance  for  her.  I  knew  that  Miss 
Finiey  was  getting  desperate ;  so  I  wrote  and  advised 
her  to  ask  Evelyn  to  do  the  part.  But,  of  course, 
she  doesn't  know  anything  about  that.  Evelyn  is 
refined  and  intelligent,  and  I  felt  sure  she  could  go 
through  it  all  right  —  that  is,  well  enough,  you 
know.  I  had  to  crack  her  up  a  little  to  Miss  Finiey, 
and  —  well  —  I  did  draw  a  pretty  long  bow.  But 
what  are  friends  for,  anyway,  if  they  don't  help  each 
other?  So  that  was  how  she  got  the  chance.  I 
do  feel  nervous  for  her,  though.     Poor  thing!     I 


138      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

wish  she'd  marry  Harold  Seymour.  It  would  be 
the  best  thing  for  her.  Any  one  can  see  that  she's 
dead  in  love  with  him." 

Evelyn  leaned  against  the  trunk  of  one  of  the 
trees.  Then  she  stood  up  straight  again.  How 
dared  that  woman  speak  so  about  her,  in  such  a 
tone  of  contemptuous  pity,  and  to  her  friend,  too? 
How  dared  she  do  it  ?  She  would  show  her  whether 
she  could  act  or  not.  She  would  show  her  that 
her  sympathy  was  quite  wasted.  To  say  such  things 
under  the  pretence  of  friendliness!  Mrs.  Bowen 
ought  not  to  have  listened;  she  ought  to  have 
stopped  her!  But  Mrs.  Bowen  was  always  politic; 
she  was  too  politic ;  she  had  a  morbid  fear  of  making 
enemies.  But  she  would  prove  to  Helen  Gordon  and 
to  Mrs.  Bowen,  too,  that  she  was  no  object  of  pity ! 
A  school-teacher!  Now  that  she  was  on  the  stage 
—  she  wished  that  she  had  never  been  in  a  theatre, 
that  she  had  never  seen  even  the  outside  of  one  —  but 
now  that  she  was  on  the  stage,  she  would  let  them 
know  that  she  belonged  there!  And  then,  Helen 
Gordon's  presumption  in  connecting  her  name  in  that 
way  with  Harold  Seymour's,  to  speak  of  his  marry- 
ing her  as  an  act  of  charity!  Oh,  how  cruel  some 
wbmen  could  be  to  other  women! 


XX. 


The  performance  was  a  success.  Even  the 
weather  had  seemed  to  play  into  the  joumalist's 
hands.  Evelyn,  about  whose  fitness  for  the  part 
Miss  Finley  had  beeji  made  nervous  by  Miss  Gordon, 
made  a  good  impression;  indeed  Miss  Finley  con- 
ceded that  Miss  Johnson  deserved  a  great  deal  of 
credit.  Her  scene  with  the  Duke  she  played  with 
a  passionate  vehemence  that  astonished  Seymour. 
When  she  went  back  to  the  tent,  Mrs.  Bowen,  who 
had  been  watching  her  from  between  the  trees,  hur- 
ried after  her  and  found  her  panting  on  the  lounge 
that  Mrs.  Stevenson  had  provided. 

"  I'll  show  them  what  I  can  do,"  she  said,  with 
a  nervous  laugh. 

It  flashed  upon  Mrs.  Bowen  that  Evelyn  had  over- 
heard the  conversation  between  herself  and  Miss 
Gordon;  but  she  made  no  reference  to  it.  The 
exhilaration  of  the  earlier  scenes  was  plainly  in- 
spiring Evelyn  for  the  others.  The  simplicity  of 
her  style,  often  ineffective  in  the  artificial  surround- 
ings of  the  theatre,  gave  her  interpretation  a  delicacy 
and  force  which  might  have  been  lost  on  a  con- 
ventional stage.  Miss  Gordon's  work,  on  the  con- 
trary, fine  as  it  was  both  in  action  and  delivery,  suf- 
fered from  the  absence  of  the  footlights;  it  was 
essentially  art;    everything  she  did  had  been  care- 

139 


140     ^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ♦ 

fully  planned  with  a  view  to  effect,  and  many  of  her 
best  effects  missed  fire.  Her  manner  and  her  looks 
seemed  almost  coarse;  she  had  made  up  injudi- 
ciously, almost  shamelessly.  After  her  first  scene  she 
appeared  to  realise  that  she  was  out  of  her  element, 
and  during  the  rest  of  the  performance  she  acted 
carelessly,  with  an  almost  listless  indifference.  She 
even  cut  out  some  of  the  "  business  "  which  she  and 
Evelyn  had  planned.  Off  the  stage  her  manner 
towards  Evelyn  suddenly  altered;  Mrs.  Bowen 
observed  the  change,  and  as  she  helped  Evelyn  to 
remove  her  doublet  and  hose  for  Rosalind's  return 
to  feminine  attire,  she  said : 

"  Even  Miss  Gordon  acknowledges  your  success. 
She's  jealous." 

"  She  tried  to  spoil  one  of  my  scenes,"  Evelyn 
replied.  "  She  thought  I'd  make  a  flat  failure  of 
the  part.  I  suppose  that's  why  she  wanted  me  to 
play  it,"  she  added,  bitterly,  "  so  that  she  could 
shine  by  comparison." 

"  Miss  Gordon  told  me  she  had  been  offered  the 
part  of  Rosalind  before  you  were,"  Mrs.  Bowen 
remarked,  "  and  I  asked  Miss  Finley  about  it  a 
few  minutes  ago.     She  said  it  wasn't  true  at  all." 

"  M'm,"  Evelyn  exclaimed,  without  making 
further  comment. 

"  She's  a  dreadful  person,"  Mrs.  Bowen  went  on, 
taking  a  pin  from  her  mouth  and  inserting  it  in  one 
of  the  folds  of  Rosalind's  dress.  "  I  don't  know 
which  is  worse  —  Miss  Gordon  or  Miss  Finley." 

"  They're  a  good  deal  alike,"  Evelyn  replied, 
wearily.  She  was  beginning  to  feel  the  effect  of 
the  afternoon's  excitement. 

"  I'm  sure  they'll  have  a  quarrel,"  Mrs.  Bowen 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      <¥►      141 

went  on,  taking  another  pin  from  her  mouth,  which 
seemed  to  have  the  capacity  of  a  fair-sized  pin- 
cushion. "  People  who  have  such  violent  friendships 
are  sure  to  get  into  hot  water.  Besides,  they're 
altogether  too  sharp  for  each  other.  She  said  she 
wasn't  doing  her  best.  She  said  you  and  Mr. 
Seymour  had  made  the  hits." 

Evelyn  had  scarcely  time  to  finish  dressing  when 
her  cue  was  given.  Before  the  final  act  had  ended, 
the  audience  began  to  disperse,  and  the  last  words 
of  the  play  were  given  while  most  of  the  people 
were  either  leaning  or  standing  in  their  seats.  The 
performers,  however,  were  greeted  with  a  burst  of 
applause  and  a  great  fluttering  of  handkerchiefs, 
and  they  had  to  reappear  hand-in-hand  on  the  green- 
sward and  bow  their  acknowledgments.  Evelyn 
and  Seymour  were  in  the  centre.  Seymour  was  in 
high  spirits.  As  he  stood  laughing  at  the  animated 
faces  in  the  crowd,  he  whispered : 

"  I  didn't  think  you  could  do  it." 

Some  ruthless  hand  tore  down  the  band  of  ribbon 
that  had  separated  the  stage  from  the  audience,  and 
Evelyn  speedily  found  herself  surrounded.  As  she 
was  slowly  making  her  way  back  to  the  tent,  she 
met  Miss  Finley,  who  clutched  her  by  the  arm. 

"  Oh,  you  dear  thing,"  she  cried,  "  you've  been 
splendid.  Mrs.  West  herself  couldn't  have  played  it 
better." 

When  Evelyn  reached  the  tent,  she  found  Mrs. 
Bowen  bending  over  a  mass  of  roses. 

"  They've  just  come.    Aren't  they  lovely?  " 

"  Who  sent  them  ?  "  asked  Evelyn.  "  Isn't  there 
a  card?" 


142      «^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         <^ 

"  Look !  "  cried  Mrs.  Bowen,  "  There's  a  package 
here  of  some  sort.    Shall  I  take  it  out?  " 

"  Yes,"  Evelyn  replied,  sinking  in  a  chair.  "  Take 
it  out  and  open  it."  Mrs.  Bowen  carefully  removed 
the  white  ribbons  and  opened  the  box.  Then  she 
uttered  a  little  cry.  ^She  held  out  the  box,  and 
Evelyn  saw  resting  on  a  wad  of  cotton-wool  a  small 
diamond-studded  gold  watch. 

Evelyn  gasped.    Then  her  face  turned  scarlet. 

"It's  from  the  Webbs,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen. 
"  Here's  their  card." 

Just  then  Madge  Guernsey  burst  into  the  tent 
and  looked  over  Mrs.  Bowen's  shoulder. 

"  Well,  if  you  ain't  the  luckiest  thing !  "  she  said, 
turning  to  Evelyn.  "  But  you  don't  seem  to  appre- 
ciate it,"  she  added,  reproachfully. 

"  I  can't  take  it,"  said  Evelyn. 

"  Oh,  you  ninny !  "  Madge  exclaimed. 

"  It  must  have  cost  as  much  as  three  hundred 
dollars,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  whose  tact  sometimes 
failed  her. 

When  Evelyn  returned  home  the  thought  of  that 
watch  considerably  marred  her  pleasure  in  her  suc- 
cess. For  a  long  time  she  could  not  make  up  her 
mind  whether  to  accept  it  or  to  send  it  back,  Mrs. 
Bowen's  reference  to  its  cost  added  to  her  worry; 
she  disliked  accepting  such  a  gift  from  people  on 
whom  she  had  so  slight  a  claim.  But  if  she  returned 
it,  she  would  probably  give  pain  to  the  invalid,  and 
possibly  arouse  her  resentment.  Besides,  under  the 
circumstances,  it  was  something  more  than  a  gratui- 
tous offering.  But  this  consideration  only  increased 
the  difficulty.  At  last  Evelyn  decided  to  keep  the 
watch;  she  did  not  really  have  the  courage  to  send 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»     143 

it  back.  So,  before  going  to  bed,  she  wrote  a  note 
of  thanks  to  Mrs.  Webb. 

The  next  morning  the  Boston  papers,  which 
Madge  had  ordered,  came  while  she  and  Evelyn 
were  sound  asleep.  The  soubrette  was  wide  awake  at 
once,  and  began  eagerly  to  search  through  the  volu- 
minous pages  of  the  Telegraph  for  Miss  Finley's 
notice  of  the  performance.  She  found  it  quickly. 
The  article  was  two  columns  long. 

"Front  page!"  Madge  exclaimed,  passing  the 
paper  before  Evelyn's  face  so  that  they  might  look 
at  it  together.    "  Isn't  that  great?  " 

"  What  does  Miss  Finley  say  about  us  ?  "  Evelyn 
asked. 

"  Read !  "  Madge  cried,  tragically,  as  she  herself 
rapidly  scanned  the  columns. 

Miss  Finley,  they  were  disappointed  to  see,  had 
devoted  a  large  portion  of  the  article  to  a  description 
of  the  audience,  which,  according  to  her  account, 
contained  "  the  cream  of  Boston's  fashion  and  cul- 
ture." She  then  went  on  to  describe  Mrs.  Steven- 
son's grounds,  devoting  the  second  half  of  the  last 
column  to  praise  of  the  actors,  two-thirds  of  which 
was  given  to  Evelyn  and  Harold  Seymour.  She 
dismissed  Helen  Gordon  with  the  remark  that  Celia 
had  been  played  with  Miss  Gordon's  "  well-known 
brilliancy,"  and  she  said  of  Madge's  Phoebe  that  it 
had  "  all  the  charm  of  rustic  beauty." 

"Well,  if  that  ain't  mean!"  said  Madge,  when 
she  had  finished  reading  the  article.  "  *  All  the 
charm  of  rustic  beauty ! '  That  woman  just  makes 
me  tired.  She  don't  know  what  acting  is.  And 
she  can't  write  for  a  cent.  But  how  she  has  lathered 
it  on  to  you  and  Harold !  "    After  a  moment  Madge 


144     ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

went  on :  "  Well,  it's  splendid  for  you  anyway.  I 
think  I'll  send  this  to  Saunderson,  after  all.  It 
can't  do  me  any  harm,  and  it  may  do  you  some  good. 
Let's  see  what  the  other  papers  have  to  say." 

The  other  papers  gave  much  less  space  to  the 
performance.  They  all  had  warm  praise  for  Eve- 
lyn's Rosalind,  however;  one  enthusiastic  critic 
went  so  far  as  to  declare  "  she  deserved  to  rank 
among  the  leading  actresses  on  the  boards  to-day." 
Several  of  them  referred  in  a  complimentary  way  to 
Madge,  but  two  ignored  her  altogether. 

"  Well,"  said  Madge,  with  a  sigh,  when  they  had 
finished  reading,  "  there  ain't  so  much  glory  in 
this  thing  as  I  thought  there'd  be.  But  it's  been 
good  sport  just  the  same.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'm  going  to  do.  I'm  going  to  gather  up  all  these 
papers,  and  I'm  going  to  send  'em  to  Saunderson, 
and  I'm  going  to  send  him  a  letter  saying  you  were 
just  out  of  sight,  an'  if  he  knows  what  he's  about 
he'll  sign  you  right  off  for  '  Deception.'  " 

"  But  do  you  think  it  would  do  any  good?  "  said 
Evelyn. 

"  Do  any  good !  Well,  ain't  you  complimentary?  " 

"  You  know  what  I  mean." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know.  I'm  not  touchy  like  you.  If 
Saunderson  hasn't  got  anybody  for  the  part  yet  I'll 
bet  he'll  be  glad  to  take  you.  I  can  tell  from  the 
book  it  would  suit  you  down  to  the  ground." 


XXL 

The  next  morning  Harold  Seymour  called  at 
Appleby  Terrace  to  take  his  friends  down  for  a 
swim.    He  found  Evelyn  and  Madge  in  the  parlour. 

"  Where's  Mrs.  Bowen  and  the  dear  boys  ? " 
Madge  asked. 

"  The  boys  are  down  at  the  boathouse,"  said 
Evelyn,  "  and  I  suppose  Mrs.  Bowen  is  up  in  her 
room  writing.  She's  always  writing  nowadays. 
I'll  call  her." 

Mrs.  Bowen  was  persuaded  to  give  up  her  labours 
for  a  time.  She  sat  on  the  beach,  while  the  others 
dressed. 

"  Just  think,"  said  Madge  to  Evelyn,  as  they  were 
about  to  leave  the  bath-house  for  the  water,  "  to- 
morrow I  shall  be  home  again  —  to-night  for  that 
matter.  I  wonder  if  Jimmy'll  be  glad.  I'll  just 
give  it  to  him  for  not  coming  to  see  me  do  Phoebe." 

"  Don't  be  hard  on  him,  Madge,"  Evelyn  urged. 

"  Oh,  how  you  talk.  As  if  you  were  so  forgiving 
yourself." 

Evelyn  flushed  and  said  nothing. 

"Say,  why  don't  you  take  him  back?"  Madge 
went  on.  "  Can't  you  see  that  he's  just  dying  for 
you  ?  "    As  Evelyn  made  no  reply.  Madge  went  on : 

"  M'm !  It  don't  do  to  treat  men  very  long  as 
you've  been  treating  him  this  summer.     Most  men 

I4S 


146      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «9» 

would  have  kicked  long  ago.  Still,  I  know  what  fun 
it  is  just  to  tantalise  a  man." 

"  I'm  not  tantalising  him,"  said  Evelyn,  resent- 
fully. 

"  Now,  my  dear !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  know  you're  awful  good,  Evelyn,"  Madge 
laughed.  "  But  don't  you  think  yourself  you're 
just  the  least  bit  of  a  flirt?  " 

"  How  can  you  say  such  things,  Madge?  " 

"  Oh,  now,  don't  get  mad.  But  you  know  you 
have  —  you  have  played  him  with  Mr.  Webb." 

"Madge!" 

"  There  you  are  again.  If  you  ain't  touchy !  Now 
tell  me  the  truth.  Haven't  you  —  haven't  you  tried 
to  make  him  just  a  little  jealous,  just  the  least  bit, 
you  know  ?  " 

Evelyn  looked  at  her  friend  despairingly.  "  I 
don't  know  what  has  put  these  ideas  into  your  head ; 
but  they're  ridiculous.  And  how  can  you  connect 
my  name  with  Mr.  Webb's  —  with  the  name  of  a 
married  man  ?  " 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  Madge  exclaimed : 
"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  anything,  really.  I  didn't  mean 
anything.  I  was  just  fooling.  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry, 
I'm  so  sorry.     Please  don't  cry,  dear,  please  don't." 

When  they  entered  the  water  they  found  that 
it  was  unusually  warm.  As  Evelyn  struck  out  from 
the  shore,  a  familiar  voice  asked :  "  Are  you  trying 
to  get  away  from  us  ?  " 

"  I  feel  like  swimming  over  to  Europe,"  she  re- 
plied, without  turning  her  head. 

With  his  long,  regular  strokes  Seymour  soon  over- 
took her. 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      147 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  follow  me,"  she  said. 

"  It  isn't  safe  for  you  to  go  out  far." 

She  kept  on  slowly  breasting  the  waves.  He 
swam  on  one  side  a  little  ahead  of  her,  and  looked 
into  her  face.  She  was  determined  to  shake  him  off 
if  possible.  She  did  not  like  his  tone  of  authority. 
For  a  moment  they  said  nothing;  she  made  hard 
work  of  swimming. 

"  You've  got  a  promise  to  keep  with  me,"  he  said, 
at  last.     "  You  know  what  it  is,  don't  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  sputtering  out  a  mouthful  of 
salt  water.  "  But  —  the  —  this  —  isn't  the  time  to 
speak  of  it." 

"  This  is  as  good  a  time  as  any,  it  seems  to  me, 
and  the  circumstances  are  quite  romantic." 

"  You  must  let  me  think  a  little  longer." 

"What  good  will  that  do?" 

"  I  don't  know  my  own  mind."  She  swallowed 
another  mouthful  of  water;  it  made  her  sputter 
again  and  cough. 

"  It's  a  very  simple  matter.  Just  tell  me  that  we're 
engaged  again,  and  we  can  manage  the  details  after- 
ward." 

"  I  can't,  I  can't."  She  tried  to  hold  her  head 
out  of  the  water,  so  as  not  to  get  a  third  mouthful. 
"  I'm  all  confused.  I've  begun  to  see  things  differ- 
ently lately.     You  must  give  me  time  to  think." 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  he  said,  with  a  sarcastic  inflection 
that  was  new  to  him.  "  Perhaps  you've  met  some 
one  you  like  better,  some  one  more  talented,  some 
one  — 

"  How  can  you  talk  to  me  so  ?  "  she  cried,  vehe- 
mently, forgetting  in  her  agitation  to  hold  up  her 
head,  and  swallowing  more  of  the  water.     But  for 


148      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ♦?» 

her  conversation  with  Madge,  she  would  have 
thought  nothing  of  the  remark. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  offend  you,"  he  said,  humbly. 

"  Don't  ever  repeat  such  a  thing  as  that  to  me," 
she  cried,  this  time  managing  her  head  so  as  to 
avoid  the  waves.  "  I  know  what  you  meant.  I 
understand  better  than  you  imagine." 

"  I  didn't  mean  anything  in  particular.  I  cer- 
tainly didn't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings." 

For  several  moments  they  swam  on  in  silence. 

"  You'll  tire  yourself  out,"  said  Seymour,  at  last. 
"  Do  turn  back,  won't  you.  The  people  on  the 
beach  will  get  frightened.  You  know  how  timid 
Mrs.  Bowen  is." 

"  Mrs.  Bowen  has  confidence  in  me.  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  follow.  I'm  quite  able  to  take  care  of 
myself." 

"  Well,  if  I  turn  back  will  you  turn  back  soon  ?  " 

"  I  shall  turn  sooner  than  I  would  if  you  fol- 
lowed." 

"  All  right  then,  I'll  go  back."  He  turned  around, 
but  he  simply  floated  and  watched  her  as  she  went 
on.  He  could  see  Mrs.  Bowen  waving  her  parasol 
from  the  shore.  He  did  not  dare  follow  Evelyn,  for 
fear  of  inciting  her  to  keep  on.  So  he  swam  in  a 
circle,  occasionally  lying  on  his  back,  and  then  tread- 
ing water.  Finally,  after  going  some  distance  be- 
yond him,  she  turned  and  looked  toward  the  shore. 
He  thought  he  detected  an  expression  of  dismay  in 
her  face.  Instead  of  swimming  toward  her,  he 
waited  for  her  to  come  up.  He  noticed  that  her 
lips  were  purple. 

"  Are  you  all  right  ?  "  he  said. 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^      149 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  reply ;  then  she  gasped : 
"  Yes." 

He  swam  up  to  her :  "  If  you're  tired,  just  put 
your  hand  on  me." 

"  I  feel  weak  and  sick."  She  clutched  at  his  arm. 
"It's  that  —  that  water  I've  swallowed." 

"  Just  rest  your  left  hand  on  this  shoulder,"  he 
said,  quietly,  "  and  we'll  swim  along  together. 
Don't  exert  yourself.  Only  make  the  motions.  Be 
sure  and  keep  your  feet  moving.  There!  Now 
we're  all  right." 

"Oh,  that's  better,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know 
what's  the  matter  with  me.  I'm  so  cold.  The 
water's  changed,  hasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  so." 

"  And  I  feel  so  ill.  I  wonder  if  we'll  ever  get 
back." 

"  Of  course  we  shall,"  he  replied,  putting  fresh 
energy  into  his  stroke. 

For  a  few  moments  she  was  silent.  Then  she 
said  :   "  It  was  very  foolish." 

"It's  all  right;   no  harm  done." 

"  My  strength  is  going,"  she  whispered.  They 
were  moving  with  the  waves  now,  and  she  could 
speak  without  gulping  down  water. 

"  You  mustn't  let  go." 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to  faint." 

"  Don't  faint  till  you  get  on  shore.  Then  you 
can  faint  as  much  as  you  like." 

"Oh,  I  know  I  shall  die.     I  shall  be  drowned." 

"  You  will  if  you  talk  all  your  strength  away," 
he  exclaimed,  "  and  so  shall  I ;  for  if  you  go  to 
the  bottom,  I'll  go  too.  Now  keep  quiet  and  we'll 
get  back  all  right.     Keep  your  feet  moving  if  you 


150     *f»      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

possibly  can,  and  don't  let  go  your  hold.  If  you 
do  we're  both  gone." 

Her  strength  she  retained  by  a  strong  effort  of 
will.  She  realised  how  dear  life  was  to  her,  how 
dear  those  were  that  she  loved,  and  chiefly  how  dear 
Harold  Seymour  was ;  all  her  doubts  seemed  foolish 
now;  she  wanted  to  live  and  she  wanted  his  love. 
She  would  have  liked  to  tell  him  that  she  loved  him. 
But  she  hadn't  strength  enough  to  speak ;  she  could 
only  cling  to  him  with  conflicting  feelings  of  horror 
and  happiness.  She  moved  mechanically  through 
the  water;  and  when  at  last  his  feet  touched  the 
shore,  and  he  told  her  they  were  all  right  now, 
she  felt  a  delicious  feeling  of  joy,  and  she  fainted. 

They  had  come  back  so  quietly,  without  sign  of 
effort,  that  Mrs.  Bowen,  who  had  been  watching 
them,  suspected  no  trouble  till  they  saw  Seymour 
take  Evelyn  in  his  arms  and  carry  her  out  of  the 
water.  Ned  Osgood  stood  a  short  distance  away, 
giving  Madge  a  lesson  in  swimming,  and  the  Stearns 
boys  were  swimming  beside  her.  When  Evelyn 
reached  the  beach  her  friend  on  shore  was  ready 
to  receive  her,  and  her  other  friends  were  clustering 
in  dripping  garments  around  her. 

"  It's  nothing,  nothing,"  said  Seymour,  noticing 
Mrs.  Bowen's  white  face.  "  She's  fainted,  that's 
all.    If  we  only  had  some  brandy," 

"  I'll  go  up  to  the  house  and  get  some,"  said  Ned. 
Then  he  looked  down  at  his  bathing-suit  and  hesi- 
tated. 

"  I've  got  some,"  said  Seymour.  "  Here,  Ros- 
coe,"  he  went  on,  taking  his  key  from  off  his  neck, 
"  you'll  find  it  in  my  back  pocket." 

Evelyn  still  gave  no  sign  of  life. 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      -^     151 

"  Bring  her  up  to  the  bath-house,"  said  Mrs. 
Bowen.    "  She'll  come  to  in  a  minute," 

As  Seymour  carried  Evelyn,  Madge  ran  ahead 
and  opened  the  door  of  the  bath-room.  Soon  after 
Seymour  left  his  burden  with  Mrs.  Bowen  and 
Madge,  Roscoe  reappeared,  panting,  and  bearing  in 
his  hand  a  silver  flask  which  he  passed  to  Madge. 

The  door  was  kept  open  to  give  the  sufferer  air, 
and  the  soaked  and  limp  figures  of  Seymour  and  the 
boys  stood  sheepishly  outside. 

"  Well,  we  don't  look  very  dignified,"  said  Sey- 
mour, with  a  laugh. 

"  She'll  be  all  right  in  a  few  minutes,  I  guess," 
said  Roscoe.     "  Let's  go  and  dress." 

As  the  boys  walked  to  their  rooms  Seymour  lin- 
gered near  the  door.  He  could  hear  Madge  giving 
directions;  she  seemed  to  command  the  situation. 
"  Here,  swallow  this  right  down.  It'll  do  you  good. 
Dear  me,  she  won't  swallow.  But  we  must  make 
her.  Here,  Mrs.  Bowen,  never  mind  that  for  a 
minute.  There  it  goes.  She's  swallowing  it.  Now 
just  see  if  she  won't  come  to.  See!  She  ain't  so  pale 
now.  Her  eyes  are  opening.  Just  another  sip  of 
this,  dear.  Now  let's  take  these  wet  things  ofT 
soon's  we  can,  and  give  her  a  good  rubbing.  Quick, 
quick.  There.  Ah!  see,  there's  life  again!  She's 
all  right.  Don't  be  afraid,  dear.  What?  What 
did  you  say?  Mr.  Seymour?  Yes,  he's  all  right. 
I  don't  know  where  he  is.  He's  gone  to  his  room 
to  dress,  I  s'pose.  The  brandy?  Give  him  some? 
I  didn't  think  he'd  need  it.  Here,  Mrs.  Bowen,  take 
this  bottle  and  give  it  to  Mr.  Seymour,  if  he's  out 
there.    But  be  sure  an'  bring  it  back." 

Seymour  beat  a  hasty  retreat.     Mrs.  Bowen  saw 


152     <^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

him,  however,  and  offered  him  the  bottle.  He  took 
a  mouthful  of  the  brandy. 

"  How  is  she?  "  he  asked. 

"  Much  better,"  replied  Mrs.  Bowen,  turning 
hastily  away.     "  She's  coming  to,  fast." 


XXII. 

From  Evelyn's  appearance  after  she  was  dressed, 
no  one  would  have  suspected  that  she  had  just 
passed  through  an  ordeal.  She  felt  weak,  however, 
and  she  was  eager  to  go  home  and  rest. 

Harold  Seymour  and  the  boys  were  waiting  for 
her.  Seymour  said  she  had  been  paid  back  for 
wanting  to  become  the  champion  long-distance  swim- 
mer of  Cohasset,  and  he  consoled  her  by  explaining 
that  great  athletes  often  fainted  after  their  stunts. 
In  presence  of  her  friends,  he  refused  to  take  any 
credit  to  himself  for  the  help  he  had  given  her; 
but  it  was  really  the  chance  of  helping  her  that  made 
him  so  happy. 

When  they  arrived  home,  Evelyn  found  Mr. 
Marble  waiting  for  Seymour.  One  of  his  friends, 
the  owner  of  the  Fanny,  the  big  sloop-yacht  lying 
off  Cohasset,  had  invited  several  of  the  men  who 
had  taken  part  in  the  performance  the  day  before 
to  go  off  for  a  trip.  Seymour  would  go,  of  course. 
And  did  Evelyn  think  that  Mr.  Webb  would  join 
them?  Evelyn  replied  that  she  couldn't  answer  for 
Mr.  Webb,  and  Seymour  volunteered  to  telephone 
the  invitation:  but  he  rubbed  his  back  hair  and 
said  he  didn't  believe  he  cared  to  go  himself.  He 
looked  wistfully  at  Evelyn. 

"  Go  by  all  means,"  she  said.     "  Don't  stay  on 

153 


154     *^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

my  account.  I  should  be  sorry  if  I  thought  I  had 
kept  you  from  going." 

This  settled  the  matter,  and  he  said,  half-reluc- 
tantly,  that  Mr.  Marble  might  count  on  him. 

A  few  minutes  after  reaching  her  room,  Evelyn 
was  sound  asleep.  She  did  not  wake  again  till  three 
o'clock.  The  rest  refreshed  her,  and  she  felt  able 
to  get  up  and  go  down-stairs;  she  was  still  so 
nervous  that  she  could  not  bear  to  be  alone.  When 
she  entered  the  parlour  she  found  Mrs.  Bowen  and 
Madge. 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  were  asleep,"  Mrs.  Bowen 
exclaimed. 

"  How  do  you  feel,  now  ?  "  asked  Madge,  taking 
Evelyn's  hand  in  both  of  her  own.  "  You  see  I 
haven't  gone,"  Madge  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  I 
couldn't  till  I  knew  you  were  all  right." 

A  moment  later,  Madge  ran  out  into  the  dining- 
room,  and  she  soon  reappeared  with  a  large  cup 
of  coffee  and  a  plate  of  toast. 

"  I've  had  these  kept  for  you,"  she  said.  "  I 
knew  you'd  be  hungry  when  you  woke  up." 

Evelyn  was  not  hungry,  but  she  tried  to  drink 
the  coffee.  While  she  was  struggling  with  it,  Mrs. 
Appleby  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  Well,  for  the  land's  sake.  So  the  child's  down 
again.  You  dear  thing !  "  After  kissing  ^Evelyn, 
Mrs.  Appleby  went  on :  "  It's  too  much  work,  my 
lady.  It's  that  theatrical  business  in  hot  weather. 
That's  what  made  you  sick." 

Evelyn  turned  to  Madge.  "  Now  that  you've 
missed  your  boat,  you  must  stay  over  another  day." 

"  Poor  Jimmy ! "  sighed  Madge,  who  was  very 
willing  to  stay.    "  He'll  wait  for  train  after  train." 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»     155 

"  Can't  you  telegraph  ?  " 

"  I  s'pose  I  could." 

"  One  of  the  boys  will  take  the  message  to  the 
office  for  you." 

"  I'll  go  look  for  'em,"  said  Madge,  jumping  up 
from  her  seat,  and  hurrying  out  on  the  porch. 

Evelyn  glanced  out  of  the  window,  and  saw 
Harold  Seymour  approaching.  He  stopped  a  mo- 
ment to  speak  with  Madge  and  the  boys  on  the 
porch,  and  then  he  entered  the  parlour.  He  walked 
very  slowly  as  if  his  legs  were  heavy;  his  face  was 
red  and  his  eyes  seemed  veiled  in  a  yellow  film. 

"  So  you're  all  right  again,  I  see,"  he  said,  with 
a  forced  smile.  "  Ah,  Mrs.  Bowen."  He  bowed 
scrupulously,  and  dropped  with  a  thud  into  a  chair 
beside  Evelyn. 

"  I  was  just  going  up-stairs,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen. 
"  I  know  you  want  to  see  Evelyn,"  she  added,  skil- 
fully, turning  to  Seymour. 

"Are  you  feeling  better?"  he  asked,  when  they 
were  alone. 

"  Yes,  much  better,"  Evelyn  replied,  quietly. 

"  I'm  glad  it  happened,"  he  said. 

"  Are  you  ?  I'm  not.  It  was  a  dreadful  experi- 
ence.   It  makes  me  shudder  to  think  of  it." 

"  But  it  brings  you  —  it  brings  you  nearer  to  me. 
You  belong  to  me  now,"  he  continued,  with  a 
smile. 

"  Belong  to  you  ?  "  Her  eyes  grew  a  shade  darker. 

"  Yes;  I've  saved  your  life,"  he  said,  with  the  air 
of  making  a  joke.  "  When  the  hero  in  the  novels 
saves  the  life  of  the  heroine,  doesn't  she  always 
have  to  marry  him  ?  " 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  without  speak- 


156      *^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

ing.  Then  she  said :  "  Did  you  come  here  to  say 
that  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  came  first  to  see  how  you  were.  I  didn't  want 
to  go  off  on  the  yacht  without  asking  for  you.  But 
now  that  I'm  here,  I  want  to  ask  for  your  answer. 
You  promised,  you  know." 

"  I  want  more  time." 

"  You're  always  saying  that.  Haven't  you  had 
time  enough  already  ?  "  he  went  on,  his  face  growing 
more  flushed.  "  And  haven't  you  any  gratitude  for 
what  I've  done  for  you  ?  " 

He  extended  his  hands,  as  if  to  clasp  her  in  his 
arms. 

"  Stop,"  she  said,  her  eyes  flashing.  "  Don't 
touch  me.  Don't  you  know  that  your  very  presence 
here  now  is  an  insult  to  me?  " 

"  An  insult  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  dazed  look, 

"  Yes,  an  insult.  It  shows  that  you  have  no 
respect  for  me.  No  man  would  call  on  a  woman 
he  respected  when  he  was  drunk." 

"  Drunk !  "  he  repeated,  rising  from  his  seat  and 
clutching  the  back  of  the  chair.    "  I'm  not  drunk !  " 

"  I  don't  care  to  discuss  that  question  with 
you,"  she  said,  rising,  too.  "  Oh,  don't  think  I'm 
without  gratitude,"  she  went  on,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes.  "  I  am  not.  But  you  hurt  me,  you  hurt  me 
more  than  —  more  than  I  can  tell  you  by  coming 
here  like  this." 

He  stared  at  her  helplessly  for  a  moment.  "  Then 
I'll  go,"  he  said,  quietly. 

He  took  her  hand  impressively,  and  tried  to  look 
into  her  eyes.  "  I  thought  you  had  more  heart,"  he 
whispered.    Then  he  turned  and  left  the  room,  and 


A  Daughter  of  Thespis      *9»     157 


she  saw  him  walking  down  the  path  toward  the 
beach. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  where  he  had  left  her, 
trying  to  control  herself.  She  felt  a  complete  revul- 
sion against  him,  and  her  loathing  seemed  the 
greater  on  account  of  the  warmth  of  her  feeling 
for  him  in  the  morning.  His  service  to  her  had  been 
a  mere  trick;  he  had  forced  her  to  overexert  herself 
in  the  water  in  order  to  make  a  theatrical  display 
of  his  own  heroism.  But  for  him  she  would  not 
have  had  the  illness  and  fright.  Oh,  that  was  the 
way  he  had  treated  her  ever  since  she  became  en- 
gaged to  him;  he  had  brought  mortification  and 
misery  upon  her,  and  then  he  had  tried  to  win 
sympathy  for  himself  by  mock  repentance  and  by 
posing  as  a  martyr.  And  when  he  had  done  this, 
why  couldn't  he  have  left  her  in  peace?  But,  in- 
stead, he  had  pursued  her  here  so  that  he  might 
heap  additional  insult  upon  her.  What  had  she 
done  that  her  life  should  be  made  one  long  misery? 
Other  girls  that  she  knew  weren't  obliged  to  suffer 
as  she  had  suffered.  She  lived  over  again  the 
months  since  she  met  the  man  who  had  won  her 
love  and  then  had  tortured  her  for  having  given 
it  to  him.  She  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer;  she 
had  been  too  patient.  That  he,  of  all  people,  should 
have  so  little  respect  for  her!  She  pitied  women 
that  were  married  to  such  men.  But  she  would 
profit  by  the  lesson  he  had  given  her.  She 
would  teach  him  there  was  at  least  one  woman 
that  could  make  him  respect  her.  Nothing  in  the 
world  could  tempt  her  to  marry  him  now! 


XXIII. 

Mrs.  Bowen  must  have  been  waiting  somewhere 
on  the  ground  floor,  probably  in  the  dining-room; 
for  no  sooner  had  Seymour  left  the  house  than  she 
returned  to  the  parlour.  This  move  was  one  of 
the  finest  expressions  of  her  tact;  she  feared  that 
Evelyn  would  go  to  her  room  and  give  way  to 
tears,  and  she  hoped,  by  keeping  her  down-stairs, 
to  prevent  this  disaster.  Mrs.  Bowen  believed  that 
in  most  cases  tears  not  only  gave  no  relief,  but  were 
an  additional  pain.  On  the  details  of  life,  Mrs. 
Bowen  had  spent  a  great  deal  of  thought,  and  she 
now  had  a  definite  theory  for  nearly  every  social 
emergency. 

She  found  Evelyn  standing  at  the  window  with 
an  expression  of  misery  in  her  face.  "  Has  he 
gone?  "  she  asked. 

Evelyn  turned  quickly.  "  Yes,  he's  gone.  I  hope 
he'll  never  come  back." 

"  Don't  say  that,  dear.  I'm  afraid  you're  unchari- 
table, Evelyn." 

"  Uncharitable!  "  Evelyn  repeated,  scornfully.  "  I 
suppose  he  does  need  a  great  deal  of  charity." 

"  He  has  been  with  Mr.  Marble  and  some  other 
men,  probably.  Don't  you  know  men  are  obliged  to 
drink  sometimes  ?  Mr.  Bowen  has  told  me  all  about 
it.    At  first  I  couldn't  understand  it.     It  seemed  to 

158 


«ip»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^     159 

me  impossible  that  civihsed  human  beings  should 
act  like  that.  But  I  understand  now.  It's  the  way 
men  show  their  friendliness  for  one  another,  almost 
the  only  way." 

Evelyn  kept  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"  Think  of  being  married  to  a  man  that  would  — 
that  would  come  home  drunk." 

"  He  wouldn't  if  you  were  married  to  him.  Don't 
you  know,  that's  what  good  women  are  for,  to  help 
men  fight  against  these  temptations?  Besides,  he 
wasn't  drunk,  really.     I  noticed." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  make  those  distinctions.  He  had 
been  drinking  —  a  great  deal.  That  was  enough. 
It  was  an  insult  for  him  to  come  here,  an  insult  to 
me." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  so?  " 

"  Yes." 

**  You  couldn't  have  said  anything  worse.  That 
hurts  a  man  like  him  more  than  anything  else." 

"  It  was  true." 

"  He  didn't  mean  to  insult  you.  You  know  he 
worships  you.  That  shows  there's  a  great  deal  of 
good  in  him.  There  are  not  many  men  in  the  world 
that  care  for  women  as  —  as  strict  as  you  are." 

Mrs.  Bowen  detected  a  subtle  change  in  Evelyn's 
attitude. 

"  Do  you  really  think  I'm  strict  ?  " 

"  Very.  Too  strict.  You  haven't  learned  to  make 
allowances  yet.  Most  women  don't  till  they're  mar- 
ried. Then  they  realise  how  much  men  have  to 
struggle  against." 

"  Women  have  to  struggle  too." 

"  Yes,  but  it's  different.  They're  protected.  It's 
made  easier  for  them." 


i6o     «f»      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

"  Oh,  I  can't  compromise  in  that  way,"  Evelyn 
broke  out.  "  What's  right  is  right,  and  what's 
wrong  is  wrong." 

"  That's  a  great  mistake,  my  dear.  You'll  find  it 
out  sometime.  What's  right  in  the  judgment  of  the 
world  is  often  wrong,  and  what's  wrong  is  often 
right.     It  all  depends." 

"Depends  on  what?" 

"  Circumstances.  It's  foolish  to  judge  every- 
body and  everything  by  an  iron  rule.  Now,  even 
you  are  inconsistent.  There's  Mr.  Marble.  He 
sometimes  drinks.  But  you  don't  despise  him. 
You  like  him." 

"  But  I  wouldn't  marry  him." 

"  So  you'd  marry  only  a  perfect  man.  Well, 
dear,  I  hope  you'll  find  him." 

Mrs.  Bowen  sat  down  beside  the  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  and  began  to  turn  over  the 
leaves  of  a  magazine.  From  the  window  Evelyn 
had  a  view  of  the  ocean  to  the  horizon's  edge.  The 
wind  was  blowing  whitecaps  on  the  waves.  The  sky 
had  the  colour  of  the  dark  sea.  In  the  north  a 
black  cloud  was  rising  ominously.  Evelyn  remem- 
bered that  on  just  such  a  day  the  summer  before 
a  fearful  storm  had  broken  over  Cohasset. 

"  I  wonder  if  they'll  go  out,"  she  said.  "  It  looks 
like  rain." 

Mrs.  Bowen  went  to  the  window. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  believe  it'll  be  anything.  That  cloud 
won't  come  near  us." 

"If  Mr.  Webb  goes  with  them  and  they  get 
caught  in  a  storm  his  wife  will  be  terribly  fright- 
ened." 

"  Do  you   suppose  he  really  will   go  ?  "     Mrs. 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^     i6i 

Bowen  looked  out  again.  "  It  does  look  rather  dark 
over  there." 

"  Perhaps  they'll  postpone  it.  They  will  if  they're 
in  their  senses." 

Mrs.  Bowen  smiled.  "  Oh,  I  guess  they'll  be  all 
right,"  she  said,  with  a  carelessness  that  appeared 
assumed. 

"  Mr.  Marble  is  terribly  reckless.  He'd  go  out 
in  a  tempest."  Evelyn  looked  anxious.  She  turned 
from  the  window  and  started  to  go  up-stairs. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  read  this  story  to  me?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Bowen,  holding  up  the  magazine.  "  My  eyes 
are  so  weak  to-day  that  I'm  afraid  to  use  them.  That 
is,  if  you  haven't  anything  else  to  do." 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  said  Evelyn,  dropping  listlessly 
into  a  chair.  "  I'll  be  glad  to  read  it.  Whose  is 
it?  Oh,  Thayer's.  I  haven't  read  one  of  his  short 
stories  for  a  long  time.  I  wonder  if  there's  any 
chance  for  me  in  *  Deception  '  ?  It's  pretty  late  now. 
I'm  afraid  there  isn't.  Dear  me,  if  something  doesn't 
come  soon,  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do." 

Presently  Madge  and  the  Stearns  boys  came  into 
the  parlour.  They  took  seats  quietly  and  listened 
to  the  reading;  Madge  amused  herself  by  conduct- 
ing across  the  room  a  mock  flirtation  with  Gerald. 

"Where's  Ned,  Roscoe?"  asked  Mrs.  Bowen, 
when  Evelyn  had  finished. 

"  He's  gone  out  with  Mr.  Seymour  and  Mr. 
Webb  on  the  yacht." 

"Wouldn't  they  take  you,  too?" 

"  Yes,  but  we  thought  we  wouldn't  go,"  Roscoe 
replied,  looking  confused. 

"  They're  going  to  have  a  great  time,"  said 
Madge.    "  You  ought  to  have  seen  the  kegs  they've 


i62     «f»      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

taken  with  'em.  I  saw  the  team  going  down  to  the 
beach  before  they  started  off." 

"  I'm  afraid  they'll  get  caught,"  said  Gerald,  going 
to  the  window.  "  It's  pretty  dark  over  there.  Just 
see  how  rough  the  water  is." 

They  all  gathered  at  the  window.  Evelyn  noticed 
that  the  cloud  in  the  north  now  covered  a  wide  patch 
of  sky.  The  water  had  taken  a  deeper  blue,  and  the 
waves  were  tossing  spray  in  the  air. 

"  They  can't  have  gone  far  in  such  a  short  time," 
said  Mrs.  Bowen. 

Roscoe  turned  to  her.  "  Oh,  yes,  they  can. 
There's  a  great  breeze." 

"  It's  raining  out  on  the  water,"  said  Gerald. 
"  See  that  sheet  of  rain  off  there  just  in  front  of 
Minot's.  By  Jove!  that  little  sloop's  catching  it. 
If  those  fellows  aren't  careful  they'll  go  —  See 
that?  Wasn't  that  a  close  call?  It  looks  like  the 
Nautilus!  Ah,  here  she  comes.  See  those  rain- 
drops on  the  window.     Now  we're  in  for  it." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  they're  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen, 
with  anxiety  in  her  tone,  and  in  her  face  a  look  of 
consternation. 

Evelyn  had  grown  pale.    Madge  was  silent. 

"  It  won't  be  anything,"  said  Roscoe,  reassuringly. 
"  They've  got  a  good  skipper  aboard." 

"  But  those  kegs."  Mrs.  Bowen  whispered. 

"  Don't  fret,"  he  laughed. 

"  I've  heard  the  storms  around  here  are  something 
terrible,"  said  Madge. 

The  storm  that,  followed  was  severe,  even  for 
the  New  England  coast.  The  thunder  soon  began 
to  crash.  Roscoe  and  Gerald,  in  spite  of  Mrs. 
Bowen's  protests,  stood  at  the  window  watching  the 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     ^      163 

waves  as  they  swept  over  Minot's  Light,  and  enjoy- 
ing the  fantastic  play  of  the  hghtning.  In  the  midst 
of  the  confusion  Mrs.  Appleby  entered,  followed 
by  her  husband.  Several  of  the  other  boarders 
rushed  down-stairs,  and  two  ran  in  from  outside 
dripping  wet,  choosing  to  herd  with  their  fellow 
beings  until  the  storm  was  over,  rather  than  go  to 
their  rooms  and  put  on  dry  clothes.  One  of  the 
thunder-claps  came  simultaneously  with  the  flash, 
and  for  a  moment  they  thought  the  cottage  had  been 
struck.  Afterward  they  found  that  one  side  of  a 
barn  two  miles  away  had  been  splintered.  The 
storm  maintained  its  fierceness  for  about  a  half- 
hour,  then  the  thunder  grew  intermittent,  and  the 
rain  poured. 

While  they  were  just  feeling  a  delicious  relief 
after  the  nervous  strain,  they  heard  a  sharp  rap. 
Gerald  opened  the  front  door,  and  they  heard  a  voice 
ask:    "Is  Mr.  Webb  here?" 

Mrs.  Bowen  and  Evelyn  exchanged  glances,  and 
both  looked  startled.  Before  they  had  time  to  speak, 
Mrs.  Webb  stood  at  the  door  of  the  parlour.  She 
was  muffled  from  head  to  foot  in  a  heavy  cloak,  and 
her  face,  shrouded  in  a  hood,  was  deathly  white. 
Her  dark  eyes  were  gleaming.  She  looked  around 
the  room,  and  on  seeing  Evelyn,  she  said :  "  Where 
is  my  husband  ?  " 

Evelyn  turned  pale.  She  rose  from  her  seat  and 
said,  weakly :    "  I  don't  know.     I  think  —  " 

"  He  went  out  on  the  yacht,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen, 
rousing  herself  with  an  effort.  "  But  I'm  sure  he's 
all  right.  They  have  a  professional  seaman  with 
them."  The  expression,  "professional  seaman," 
sounded  ridiculous,  but  no  one  smiled ;  they  all  rec- 


164     ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

ognised  it  as  a  desperate  invention  of  Mrs.  Bowen's, 
made  to  reassure  the  excited  woman. 

"  He's  probably  drowned  by  this  time,"  Mrs. 
Webb  wailed. 

Mrs.  Bowen  replied :  "  Do  sit  down,  won't  you, 
Mrs.  Webb?    Aren't  you  wet  through?  " 

"  I  don't  care  whether  I'm  wet  through  or  not," 
said  Mrs.  Webb.  "  I  want  my  husband.  He's  gone 
off  on  that  yacht  with  some  of  your  actor-friends, 
Miss  Johnson.  You  are  to  blame  for  it.  He 
wouldn't  have  gone  but  for  you.  He's  never  done 
such  a  thing  before  in  his  life.  To  leave  me  at  such 
a  time  and  go  off  with  a  lot  of  disreputable  char- 
acters." 

Evelyn  was  unable  to  speak.  She  wondered  why 
she  did  not  feel  angry;  probably  because  she 
pitied  Mrs.  Webb  more  than  she  pitied  herself. 
Mrs.  Bowen  looked  utterly  helpless;  her  tact  was 
not  equal  to  this  emergency.  An  ominous  silence 
followed. 

Then  Mrs.  Appleby  spoke  up :  "I  can't  have  you 
talk  so  to  one  of  my  guests.  I  don't  care  who  you 
are,  either.  You  have  no  right  to  come  here  and 
talk  so." 

Mrs.  Webb  glanced  disdainfully  at  Mrs.  Appleby's 
plump  figure ;  she  did  not  reply.  Mr.  Appleby,  who 
was  sitting  beside  his  wife,  had  shrunk  into  well- 
dressed  insignificance;  since  his  entrance  into  the 
room  he  seemed  to  have  grown  much  smaller. 

"  I  thought  my  husband  might  be  here,"  said 
Mrs.  Webb,  turning  to  Mrs.  Bowen,  and  speaking 
more  calmly.  "  I'll  go  down  to  the  beach  and  see 
if  I  can't  find  out  something  about  him  there." 

"  Won't  you  let  one  of  the  boys  go  for  you  ? 


A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^     165 


You'll  catch  cold,  I'm  afraid.     Roscoe,  you'll  go, 
won't  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I'll  go  myself.  I  can't  rest  easy  till  I  get 
news.  Some  of  the  yachts  must  have  gone  over  in 
this  storm." 

"  Go  with  her,  Roscoe.  Go  with  her,"  cried  Mrs. 
Bowen,  desperately,  as  Mrs.  Webb  turned  to  leave 
the  house. 

Roscoe  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Then  he  dashed 
from  the  room,  seized  his  hat  from  the  rack  in 
the  hall,  and  hurried  out  of  the  front  door  into  the 
rain. 


XXIV. 

Evelyn  left  the  parlour  in  tears.  Mrs.  Bowen 
followed,  and  tried  to  soothe  her.  She  ought  to 
realise  that  Mrs.  Webb  was  half-crazy  and  not 
responsible  for  what  she  had  said,  Mrs.  Bowen 
insisted.     But  it  took  a  long  time  to  pacify  her. 

The  rain  ceased,  the  sun  came  out  again,  and  shone 
fiercely  into  Mrs.  Bowen's  room.  Evelyn  at  first 
refused  to  return  to  the  parlour;  but  Mrs.  Bowen 
persuaded  her.  Some  of  the  boarders  were  gathered 
on  the  porch  discussing  the  ravages  of  the  storm. 
A  large  tree  near  the  cottage  had  been  half -uprooted, 
and  in  one  of  the  neighbouring  houses  several 
panes  of  glass  had  been  smashed.  Madge  and 
Gerald  had  gone  down  to  the  beach.  Mrs.  Bowen 
suggested  that  she  and  Evelyn  join  them,  and  in  a 
few  moments  they  were  down  at  the  boat-house 
where  Seymour  had  a  locker.  His  rowboat  had 
been  hauled  into  the  house  by  the  boatman,  and  his 
little  sloop  was  gracefully  riding  the  waves  near 
the  landing.  They  found  their  friends  with  Mrs. 
Webb  and  Roscoe  on  the  porch.  Mrs.  Webb  was 
holding  a  large  sea-glass  to  her  eyes,  and  was  look- 
ing in  the  direction  in  which  the  boatman  was 
pointing. 

"  That's  the  boat,  ma'am.  Sure  they's  nothing  to 
be  worried  about.    She's  making  straight  for  home." 

i66 


A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»      167 


"I  can't  see  who  are  on  it,"  said  Mrs.  Webb. 
"  But  there  are  several  of  them.  See,  they're  turn- 
ing about.     Why  are  they  doing  that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am,"  the  boatman  replied. 

They  could  plainly  see  the  yacht  in  the  distance, 
not  far  from  Minot's.  For  several  moments  they 
watched  it  without  speaking.  Instead  of  making  for 
the  shore,  as  the  boatman  had  said,  it  was  going 
round  and  round  in  a  circle.  Yet  it  was  under 
control. 

"  What  are  they  doing  that  for  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Webb. 

"  P'raps  they're  lookin'  for  something,"  the  boat- 
man suggested. 

"  Looking  for  something,"  repeated  Mrs.  Webb, 
who  clung  to  the  boatman's  glass  without  taking 
her  eyes  from  it.  "  What  can  they  be  looking  for 
—  unless  some  one  has  been  swept  overboard  ?  " 
Finally  she  laid  down  the  glasses  on  a  seat  and 
held  her  hand  at  her  forehead.  "  I  feel  sick,"  she 
said,  sinking  into  a  chair. 

"  If  we  only  had  some  of  Mr.  Seymour's  brandy," 
said  Madge  to  Mrs.  Bowen. 

The  boatman  overheard  her.  "I've  got  a  bottle 
here,"  he  said. 

He  went  back  among  the  lockers  and  speedily 
returned  with  a  black  bottle  and  a  small  tumbler 
half-filled  with  water. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  said  Madge. 

A  moment  later,  Mrs.  Webb  said  she  felt  better. 
The  rain  and  the  dampness  had  chilled  her.  No,  she 
wouldn't  go  back  to  Appleby  Terrace  or  to  her  own 
house,  either.  She  would  stay  right  there  till  that 
boat  came  in.     There  was  something  the  matter; 


1 68      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

that  was  plain  enough.  Perhaps  her  husband  had 
been  swept  overboard  during  the  storm.  She'd 
never  forgive  herself  for  allowing  him  to  go  out. 
She  hadn't  wanted  him  to  go,  anyway. 

Madge  waved  her  handkerchief  in  the  direction 
of  the  yacht.  For  several  moments  the  signals  were 
not  noticed ;  then  an  answer  was  given  by  some  one 
in  the  bow.  After  moving  in  half-circles  for  several 
minutes  longer,  the  yacht  was  turned  slowly  in 
the  direction  of  the  shore. 

"Thank  God,"  said  Mrs.  Webb,  fervently, 
"  they're  coming  at  last.  I  think  that  was  my  hus- 
band who  waved.  We  shall  be  able  to  tell  in  a 
few  moments."  But  she  did  not  offer  to  give  up 
the  glasses. 

"  Won't  you  take  some  more  of  this  brandy, 
Mrs.  Webb?  "  said  Madge.  "  Your  Hps  are  getting 
purple  again." 

Mrs.  Webb  clung  to  the  glasses  while  she  took 
another  sip  of  brandy.  "  I  must  try  to  keep  my 
strength  up,  I  suppose.  I  know  I  shall  be  sick 
from  this  adventure.  But  I  don't  care  if  my  hus- 
band is  safe."  She  put  her  eyes  to  the  glasses  once 
more,  and  held  them  there  as  if  they  were  glued  to 
the  lenses,  "  I  shall  be  able  to  distinguish  them  in 
just  a  moment,"  she  said,  excitedly.  "  They're  ever 
so  much  more  distinct  now.  Yes,  —  it  is,  it's 
Oswald.     Thank  Heaven,  he's  safe." 

"  Can  you  make  out  Mr.  Seymour?  "  said  Evelyn. 
She  was  almost  beside  herself  with  anxiety,  and  she 
felt  as  if  she  were  in  a  fever. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Webb.  "  I'm  not 
familiar  enough  with  his  looks." 

"  Won't  you  let  us  take  the  glasses  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      169 

Bowen,  with  as  much  poHteness  as  she  could  sum- 
mon under  the  circumstances.  In  the  past  few  mo- 
ments she  had  conceived  an  intense  disHke  for  Mrs. 
Webb. 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Webb;  passing  the 
glasses  to  Mrs.  Bowen,  but  without  apologising. 

Mrs.  Bowen  gave  them  at  once  to  Evelyn,  who 
put  them  with  trembling  hands  to  her  eyes.  After 
some  trouble,  caused  by  her  nervousness,  Evelyn 
succeeded  in  adjusting  them  properly.  By  this  time 
the  boat  was  so  near  that  those  on  board  could  be 
almost  distinguished  from  the  shore. 

"  I  can  see  the  faces  quite  plainly,"  said  Evelyn, 
speaking  quickly  and  in  a  dry  tone,  as  if  her  throat 
were  parched.  "  There's  Mr.  Webb  and  Ned  and 
Mr.  Marble  and  some  men  I  don't  know.  But  —  I 
—  I  can't  see  Mr.  Seymour." 

"  He's  in  the  cabin  probably,"  said  Roscoe. 

Evelyn  passed  the  glasses  to  Roscoe.  "  You 
look."    She  had  grown  pale. 

Roscoe  looked  steadily  for  a  moment.  "  Do  you 
see  him?  "  asked  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  quietly.  "  He  must  be  in  the 
cabin.     Perhaps  he  was  seasick." 

"  He's  a  good  sailor,"  said  Evelyn. 

The  glasses  were  passed  from  one  to  the  other. 
No  one  could  distinguish  Seymour. 

They  sat  in  silence.  Mrs.  Webb  looked  sympa- 
thetically at  Evelyn;  every  moment  brought  the 
yacht  nearer;  it  was  making  direct  for  the  boat- 
house.  They  could  not  go  down  on  the  float,  for 
it  was  almost  submerged  in  water.  No  one  had 
spirit  enough  to  wave  a  handkerchief. 

When   the  boat   came   within  hailing   distance, 


lyo     «^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

Roscoe  cried:  "Are  you  all  right?"  Mr.  Webb 
and  Ned  waved  their  hands.  In  landing  at  the  float 
they  had  to  step  into  several  inches  of  water;  Ned 
was  the  first  to  leave  the  boat,  and  he  was  followed 
by  Oswald  Webb  and  by  Mr.  Marble.  They  all 
hurried  up  to  the  porch.  Mrs.  Webb  threw  her 
arms  around  her  husband's  neck. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  Constance?  "  he  said, 
sternly.  "  Don't  you  know  that  you  are  risking 
your  life  by  coming  out  on  such  a  day  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  replied.  "  I  was  beside  myself. 
I'll  never  let  you  out  of  my  sight  again." 

Mr.  Marble  and  Ned  were  standing  before  Evelyn 
and  Mrs.  Bowen.  The  comedian  was  mopping  his 
brow,  and  Ned  was  explaining  that  they  had  had 
"a  tough  time." 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Seymour?  "  said  Evelyn.  "  Why 
don't  you  tell  us  where  he  is  ?    Is  he  safe  ?  " 

Mr.  Marble  looked  helplessly  at  Ned;  but  Ned 
remained  silent.  Evelyn  turned  appealingly  to  Os- 
wald Webb. 

"Has  anything  happened  to  Mr.  Seymour?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  looking  her  in  the  face. 

"  Is  he  —  is  he  drowned  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  so." 

She  continued  to  look  at  him  for  a  moment.  Then 
she  turned  to  Mrs.  Bowen,  "  Let  us  go  back  to  the 
house." 

Mrs.  Bowen  put  one  arm  around  her  waist.  "  How 
did  it  happen?  "  she  asked,  turning  to  Oswald  Webb. 

"  It  was  just  after  the  storm  struck  us.  We 
didn't  put  about  quickly  enough.  Mr.  Seymour  was 
out  on  the  bow.    I  suppose  that  a  wave  struck  him 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     ^      171 

and  he  lost  his  hold.  We  didn't  know  it  for  a  few 
moments.     The  rain  was  blinding." 

"  And  you  —  you  haven't  found  him  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Bowen,  as  she  walked  to  the  door  of  the  boat- 
house. 

"  No." 

When  they  had  passed  out  of  the  door  Mrs. 
Bowen  and  Evelyn  started  up  the  hill. 

"  Can't  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  "  Webb  asked. 

Evelyn  shook  her  head.     "  Nothing,  thank  you." 

They  walked  slowly.  Oswald  Webb  and  Ned 
had  been  drenched,  and  Mrs.  Webb  began  to  com- 
plain of  the  wetting  she  had  received.  On  the  way 
Ned  gave  Madge  an  account  of  his  experience. 
Before  they  left  it  had  looked  like  rain,  and  Mr. 
Webb  suggested  that  the  trip  be  postponed,  or 
that  they  wait  for  a  half-hour  or  so  to  see  whether 
the  storm  was  really  coming  or  not.  But  Seymour 
was  eager  to  start  at  once;  he  declared  that  he 
hoped  they  should  have  a  "  rip-roaring  tempest." 
So  off  they  went,  and  they  had  gone  about  half-way 
to  Minot's  when  the  storm  broke.  The  skipper 
seemed  to  have  lost  his  head ;  he  had  been  drinking 
in  the  morning  with  some  of  the  men  up  at  The 
Wetmore.  He  might  have  put  back  easily  enough ; 
but,  instead,  he  turned  the  boat  out  to  sea.  Seymour 
worked  every  minute;  he  was  the  only  one  that 
didn't  seem  to  be  frightened.  The  skipper  called 
out  that  some  one  would  have  to  go  forward  and 
attend  to  the  jib,  and  Seymour  started  for  the  bow. 
That  was  all  any  one  knew  about  him;  there  was 
a  fearful  sea  on;  half  the  time,  it  seemed  to  Ned, 
they  were  up  in  the  clouds  and  the  other  half  down 
in  the  centre  of  the  earth.    The  boat  went  along  like 


172      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

an  express  train,  only  a  thousand  times  faster,  and 
the  sea  kept  surging  round  them  and  sweeping  over 
them.  Mr.  Marble  grew  scared  and  began  to  pray 
out  loud  and  groan.  Mr.  Webb  was  the  coolest; 
he  was  the  one  who  discovered  Seymour's  absence. 
The  skipper  said  they  couldn't  go  back;  but  Mr. 
Webb  stood  up  and  said  that  if  the  vessel  wasn't  put 
about  he'd  pitch  the  skipper  overboard  and  take  the 
tiller  himself.  So  they  turned;  but  not  a  sign 
could  be  seen  of  Seymour.  The  sea  was  running 
high,  and  the  lightning  flashed  around  them;  they 
saw  it  strike  in  several  places  on  the  shore;  with 
every  flash  and  every  thunder-clap  Mr.  Marble 
groaned  and  prayed  louder.  It  was  wonderful  how 
the  boat  weathered  the  storm ;  they  had  to  hold  on 
the  gunwale  to  save  themselves  from  being  pitched 
over;  many  times  Ned  felt  sure  they  should  never 
rise  out  of  the  sea  again.  They  hovered  around  the 
spot  where  they  supposed  Seymour  had  fallen  until 
the  tempest  had  passed;  then  they  found  that,  in 
spite  of  themselves,  they  had  been  driven  out  to 
sea.  So  they  went  back;  but  of  course  it  was  no 
use;   they  found  nothing,  not  even  his  hat. 

Ned  finished  his  narrative  as  they  approached 
Appleby  Terrace.  Mrs.  Appleby  was  standing  on 
the  porch  with  the  sailor-cap  on  her  head.  She  had 
divined  that  something  serious  had  happened. 

"  We  will  push  right  on  home,"  said  Webb  to 
Evelyn  and  Mrs.  Bowen.  When  he  and  his  wife 
had  overtaken  them,  he  added :  "  We  are  very  sorry. 
Of  course,  you  know  that."  He  looked  at  Evelyn 
sympathetically.  Mrs.  Webb  said  nothing;  her 
sole  desire  seemed  to  be  to  take  her  husband  home 
and  to  keep  him  there. 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     «^      173 

Mrs.  Bowen  at  once  led  Evelyn  up  to  her  room, 
and,  placing  her  in  a  big  chair  near  the  window, 
began  to  remove  her  wraps.  Evelyn  sat  quietly,  and 
looked  around  as  if  the  place  were  unfamiliar. 

"Why  don't  you  cry?"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  des- 
perately. Tears  were  running  down  her  own 
cheeks. 

"  I  can't,"  said  Evelyn. 

"  Don't  you  care?  "  asked  Mrs.  Bowen,  with  the 
hope  of  forcing  tears.  She  was  frightened  by  this 
stony  calmness. 

"  Yes,  I  care.    I  care  very  much." 

"  Then  try  to  cry.    Try,  dear,  try." 

Evelyn  looked  away  and  shook  her  head.  "  I  am 
to  blame,"  she  whispered. 

"To  blame?     Nonsense." 

"  I  sent  him  away.  He  wouldn't  have  gone  if 
I  hadn't  been  so  —  if  I  hadn't  spoken  to  him  like 
that." 

"  He  would  have  gone  anyway." 

"  I  heard  Ned  tell  as  he  came  up  the  hill.  You 
thought  I  didn't  hear.  But  I  did  —  everything.  I 
made  him  reckless." 

Suddenly  Evelyn  began  to  tremble,  and  Mrs. 
Bowen  knew  the  reaction  had  come.  For  several 
moments  Evelyn  struggled,  trying  to  catch  her 
breath.  Then  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands 
and  burst  out  sobbing. 


XXV. 

The  next  day  they  found  Harold  Seymour's 
body;  it  had  been  cast  up  on  the  shore  at  Scituate. 
Mr.  Marble  took  charge  of  it ;  he  knew  the  address 
of  Seymour's  sister  in  England ;  Seymour  had  often 
said  he  wished  to  be  buried  at  home,  with  his  people. 

The  accident  was  discussed  in  the  newspapers 
for  several  days,  and  Seymour's  history  was  re- 
hearsed; all  the  critics  agreed  that  he  had  given 
as  much  promise  as  any  of  the  younger  men  on  the 
stage.  Miss  Finley  wrote  a  vivid,  but  an  entirely 
imaginary  account  of  the  way  he  had  been  swept 
from  the  boat,  and  she  gave  a  detailed  description 
of  the  narrow  escape  of  the  whole  party,  founded 
chiefly  on  what  Ned  told  her;  she  seemed  also  to 
have  gathered  anecdotes  about  Harold  Seymour 
from  nearly  every  one  in  Cohasset  who  had  known 
him ;  these  kept  appearing  from  day  to  day.  Among 
other  things,  she  boldly  declared  that,  at  the  time 
of  his  death,  Seymour  had  been  engaged  to  the 
"  brilliant  and  accomplished  young  actress,  Miss 
Evelyn  Johnson,  who,  only  the  other  day,  made  such 
a  charming  Rosalind  to  his  delightful  rendering  of 
Orlando,"  and  that  they  were  to  have  married  before 
the  end  of  the  summer. 

On  the  morning  after  Seymour's  death,  Evelyn 
received  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Freeman,  saying  that 

'74 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     ^      175 

Saunderson  wanted  her  for  the  part  of  Mathilde 
in  "  Deception."  She  had  decided  to  remain  in  bed 
all  day,  and  the  news  came  while  she  was  trying 
to  drink  the  coffee  Madge  had  brought  up  for  her. 
Without  speaking,  she  gave  Madge  the  letter  to 
read,  and  when  the  girl  had  deciphered  Mrs.  Free- 
man's business  scrawl,  she  threw  her  arms  round 
Evelyn's  neck. 

"  You  see  the  world  hasn't  come  to  an  end  yet," 
she  said. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  glad,"  Evelyn  remarked. 
"  I  should  have  been  a  few  days  ago.  But  now  I 
don't  care." 

"  You  don't  care  whether  you  starve  or  not.  Is 
that  what  you  mean  ?  "  , 

"Yes.     I  think  I'd  rather  starve  —  if  anything." 

"  Well,  please  don't  begin  now.  Just  eat  that 
toast  and  drink  that  coffee.  It's  all  on  account  of 
the  performance  the  other  day.  And  I  haven't  sent 
Saunderson  the  papers  either.  Perhaps  the  Boston 
notices  did  it.  They  were  short,  but  the  one  in  the 
Item  gave  you  a  great  puff.  Seventy-five  a  week! 
Well,  that  ain't  bad.  I'm  only  gett'n'  forty-five,  and 
I  ain't  kicking." 

"  It's  what  I've  been  hoping  for  all  these  weeks. 
I  wonder  why  I  don't  feel  glad  over  it.  I  never  do 
when  I  get  what  I've  been  wanting  for  a  long  time." 

"Well,  you're  awfully  lucky,  that's  all  I  can 
say.     Of  course  you'll  take  it." 

"  I've  got  to  take  something." 

"  Mrs.  Freeman  says  to  wire  Saunderson,  don't 
she?  Yes,  'Wire  Saunderson  and  he'll  send  on 
the  part.'    Well,  you'd  better  do  it  right  off.    Want 


176      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

me  to  write  the  message  for  you.  I'll  give  it  to 
Ned." 

Madge  seized  paper  and  pencil  from  one  of  the 
bureau  drawers  and  proceeded  to  write  on  Evelyn's 
dressing-table.  "What  shall  I  say?  I'd  be  just  a 
little  reserved,  as  if  I'd  had  a  lot  of  other  offers 
about  as  good.  How  about,  '  Decided  to  accept. 
Terms  a  little  low.  Can't  you  make  it  a  hundred  ? ' 
No,  that's  too  long.  Besides,  it's  thirteen  words, 
too,  and  it  might  be  a  hoodoo.  We  mustn't  have 
more  than  ten  words.  This  would  be  better.  '  De- 
cided to  accept.  Terms  low.  Make  it  a  hundred.' 
That's  only  nine  words,  and  it's  very  business-like." 

Evelyn  shook  her  head.  "  They  would  get  some 
one  else.  The  terms  are  very  good.  You  said  so 
yourself  a  minute  ago."^ 

"  Oh,"  said  Madge,  with  disgust,  "  you  ain't  got 
any  more  business  in  you!  Of  course,  it's  good. 
But  get  all  you  can,  I  say." 

"  Just  write :  '  Accept,  terms  satisfactory.'  Just 
*  Accept '  alone  would  do." 

"  Only  three  words !  "  exclaimed  Madge.  "  Why, 
it  don't  cost  any  more  to  send  ten.  Think  of  what 
you're  wasting." 

"  But  that's  all  I  have  to  say.    That  covers  it  all." 

Saunderson's  offer  gave  Evelyn  fresh  energy  and 
determination;  in  spite  of  Madge's  protests,  she 
dressed  and  went  down-stairs.  She  first  told  Mrs. 
Bowen  about  the  offer.  Mrs.  Bowen  was  deep  in 
literary  work,  preparing  a  minute  account  of  the 
events  of  the  previous  day  for  her  husband. 

When  she  heard  the  news  she  cried  with  the  air 
of  a  prophetess :  "  It's  a  compensation.  These 
things  are  always  happening.     You'll  be  sure  to 


*sf»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      177 

have  good  luck  now,  because  you've  had  such  bad 
luck." 

The  boarders  were  surprised  to  see  Evelyn  down- 
stairs again.  Like  Madge,  they  had  expected  her 
to  remain  in  retirement  for  what  they  regarded  as 
a  suitable  interval.  After  the  first  shock  of  hearing 
of  Seymour's  death,  she  had  too  much  good  sense 
to  blame  herself;  but  she  thought  that  she  owed 
him  some  self-inflicted  punishment  for  the  way  she 
had  treated  him.  Her  friends  in  Cohasset  were  at 
a  loss  how  to  express  sympathy  for  her;  in  spite 
of  Miss  Finley's  announcement,  they  knew  the 
engagement  had  been  broken,  and  they  soon  heard 
that  it  had  not  been  renewed ;  some  of  them  referred 
to  the  matter  before  her  in  an  impersonal  way ;  others 
thought  it  more  delicate  to  ignore  it  altogether. 
Helen  Gordon,  however,  felt  no  such  sensibility ;  she 
called  on  Evelyn  on  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day 
and  spoke  her  mind  freely. 

"  After  all,"  she  said,  "  perhaps  it's  for  the  best. 
Of  course,  you  would  have  married  him.  You 
know  you  would  have  given  in  before  the  summer 
was  over.  But  you  and  he  weren't  a  bit  suited  to 
each  other.  I  don't  believe  in  professionals  marry- 
ing each  other,  anyway.  I've  made  up  my  mind 
after  I  get  my  divorce  not  to  marry  an  actor.  Think 
of  all  the  unhappy  marriages  on  the  stage  that  we 
know!  Mr.  Seymour  would  have  been  playing  in 
New  York  while  you  were  off  on  the  road,  and 
you'd  just  be  eaten  up  with  jealousy.  That  is,  unless 
you  left  the  stage.  And  you  know  you  wouldn't  be 
happy  off  the  stage  while  he  was  on  it.  It's  a  queer 
business.  Sometimes,  I  wish  I  hadn't  gone  into  it. 
I'm   sorrv   I    didn't   become   an   authoress.      Miss 


178      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

Finley  says  I'd  make  a  splendid  newspaper  woman. 
By  the  way,  wasn't  she  mean  to  me  in  that  article 
of  hers  —  about  the  performance?  I  don't  see 
how  she  had  the  nerve  to  face  me  after  it.  And 
she  gave  you  such  a  splendid  notice,  too.  I  did 
intend  to  stay  at  the  hotel  with  her  a  few  days 
longer;  but  now  I  won't.  I  think  she's  a  kind  of 
jealous  thing,  anyway.  She's  jealous  of  the  atten- 
tion I've  been  receiving  at  the  hotel.  There's  been 
a  coldness  between  us  ever  since  yesterday  morning, 
and  you  know  that  isn't  very  pleasant." 

Evelyn  did  not  tell  Miss  Gordon  of  her  offer  from 
Saunderson  until  her  guest  was  about  to  leave. 
When  she  did  mention  it,  an  expression  of  mingled 
surprise,  displeasure,  and  cunning  appeared  in  the 
face  of  the  actress.  But  that  vanished  instantly,  and 
gave  place  to  a  smile. 

"  So  you've  got  it  at  last!  Well,  I  congratulate 
you.  I'm  awfully  glad.  It  will  be  so  nice  for  us 
to  be  in  the  same  company." 

Evelyn  thought  of  Miss  Gordon's  treatment  of 
her  during  the  out-of-door  performance,  and  won- 
dered. 

"  And  Belle  Livingstone's  left ! "  Miss  Gordon 
went  on.  "  Why,  she  was  sure  of  it.  She  stayed 
in  New  York  on  purpose  to  get  it.  Do  you  sup- 
pose the  notices  of  your  Rosalind  got  it  for  you? 
They  probably  did.  Perhaps  Saunderson  saw  Miss 
Finley's  article.  Really  these  newspaper  women 
have  a  great  deal  of  power.     Too  much,  /  think." 

It  was  Oswald  Webb  who  informed  Evelyn  of 
the  finding  of  Seymour's  body.  He  had  received 
the  news  from  Mr.  Marble.  He  called  shortly  after 
Helen  Gordon  had  left,  and  he  brought  with  him 


^  A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^     179 

a  large  bunch  of  roses  which  he  said  Mrs.  Webb 
had  sent.  He  spoke  of  Seymour  as  if  he  had  been 
nothing  more  than  her  friend,  and  he  showed  great 
tact  and  delicacy;  he  had  evidently  liked  the  actor 
and  admired  his  talent;  if  he  saw  the  weaker  side 
of  Seymour's  nature,  there  was  nothing  in  what  he 
said  that  could  be  twisted  into  a  betrayal  of  the 
perception.  Mrs.  Webb,  as  he  had  expected,  was 
ill  after  the  excitement  and  exposure  of  the  after- 
noon; all  night  long  she  had  been  in  a  high  fever, 
but  she  was  quiet  to-day.  He  did  not  know  what 
had  happened  during  her  call  at  Appleby  Terrace, 
something  unpleasant  he  feared;  Mrs.  Webb  had 
given  him  an  incoherent  account  of  it.  He  hoped 
Miss  Johnson  would  overlook  anything  his  wife 
had  said  or  done ;  in  times  of  excitement  she  seemed 
to  lose  control  of  herself,  indeed,  not  to  be  quite 
herself.  When  she  realised,  she  would  be  sorry. 
Here  his  embarrassment  was  so  great  that  he  stam- 
mered, hesitated,  and  finally  stopped  speaking. 

"  Oh,  before  I  go,"  he  said,  "  let  me  congratulate 
you  on  your  engagement  —  your  New  York  en- 
gagement," he  added. 

"  So  you've  heard  of  it  already?" 

"Yes,  I  heard  of  it  as  I  came  in  from  Mrs. 
Bowen.    I  met  her  on  the  porch." 


XXVI. 

For  several  days  Saunderson  did  not  send  the 
part  of  Mathilde  to  Evelyn,  and  by  the  time  it  ar- 
rived, Madge  had  returned  home.  Madge  would 
have  liked  to  stay  longer;  but  she  could  not  resist 
the  daily  appeals  of  Jimmy  Wise  to  come  back.  Be- 
sides, Evelyn  was  taking  Harold  Seymour's  death 
with  wonderful  fortitude. 

Evelyn  sometimes  wondered  why  she  did  not 
suffer  more.  Harold  Seymour's  death  caused  her 
not  nearly  so  much  grief  and  misery  as  the  break- 
ing of  her  engagement.  This  summer  he  had 
seemed  so  different,  except  for  those  few  moments 
in  the  water,  when  he  had  assumed  in  her  eyes  all 
his  heroic  qualities.  It  was  strange  that  she  should 
seek  now  to  judge  him ;  yet,  whenever  she  thought 
of  him,  she  kept  weighing  his  qualities,  trying  to 
explain  to  herself  why  he  had  changed.  She  would 
not  acknowledge  to  herself  that  the  change  was  in 
herself  alone;  she  had  read  in  novels  about  lovers 
who  had  been  separated  for  years  and  then  had 
met  again,  and  tried  and  failed  to  be  to  each  other 
what  they  had  been.  But  in  the  few  months  of 
her  separation  from  Harold  Seymour,  they  could 
not  have  changed  so  completely;  perhaps  her  re- 
spect for  him  was  gone;  that  might  explain  many 
qualities  she  had  never  noticed  before. 

i8o 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      i8i 

One  morning  while  Evelyn  was  looking  over  her 
new  part,  Mrs.  Bowen  entered  the  parlour ;  she  was 
greatly  interested  in  hearing  about  Leonard  Thay- 
er's play.     She  had  already  read  the  novel. 

"  Read  the  part  out  loud  to  us,  won't  you?  "  she 
asked,  eagerly. 

"  A  great  many  of  the  speeches  are  taken  bodily 
from  the  story,"  said  Evelyn. 

"  Well,  in  the  story  they're  perfectly  beautiful." 

"  Yes,  it's  much  more  sympathetic  than  Mrs. 
Gwynne,  Miss  Gordon's  part;  but  it  isn't  so  dra- 
matic." 

"  Miss  Gordon  will  do  Mrs.  Gwynne  beautifully," 
said  Mrs.  Bowen.  "  It  might  have  been  written  for 
her." 

"  Yes,  she  expects  to  make  a  hit." 

Just  then  Mrs.  Appleby  strolled  into  the  room. 
"  Ain't  it  wonderful  to  hear  an  actress  talk  about 
the  parts  she  plays  ? "  she  said  to  Mrs.  Bowen. 
"  Seems  like  another  world  to  me." 

"  I  almost  feel  like  an  actress  myself,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Bowen,  gaily. 

Evelyn  laughed.  "  You're  not  an  actress,  dear. 
You're  an  authoress." 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  shaking  her 
head,  sadly.     "I've  given  that  up." 

"  What !    Given  up  your  story?  " 

"  H'm,  h'm !     I  got  discouraged.     I  lost  faith." 

"  But  what  will  Mr.  Webb  say?  And  after  all 
these  confidences,  too." 

"I  sha'n't  speak  of  it  to  him.  I'll  just  let  it 
drop." 

Evelyn  was  not  surprised;  she  had  often  ob- 
served similar  drooping  literary  ambitions  among 


1 82      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f» 

young  actors  and  actresses  ambitious  to  write  plays. 
"  Then  you  can  help  me  with  my  part,"  she  said. 
"  You  can  give  me  the  cues  —  after  I  learn  it." 

The  Stearns  boys  and  Ned,  as  well  as  Mrs. 
Bowen,  soon  came  to  be  almost  as  familiar  with 
the  lines  as  Evelyn  was  herself.  Mrs.  Bowen's 
room  was  the  scene  of  many  a  rehearsal,  in 
which  Evelyn  was  commended  and  lectured  and 
mimicked. 

During  this  time  Evelyn  neither  saw  nor  received 
word  from  Oswald  Webb;  but  Mrs.  Appleby  an- 
nounced, with  a  significant  inflection,  that  Mrs. 
Webb  had  been  confined  to  her  room  for  several 
days ;  she  had  heard  through  Mrs.  Stevenson's  ser- 
vants. As  a  rule,  Mrs.  Appleby  was  skeptical  about 
Mrs.  Webb's  illness;  she  had  a  theory  that  a  lot 
of  these  rich  people,  with  nothing  else  to  do,  just 
made  themselves  sick  by  thinking  of  nothing  but 
themselves.  Since  Mrs.  Webb's  sudden  advent  at 
Appleby  Terrace,  however,  she  had  formed  the 
habit,  whenever  the  invalid's  name  was  mentioned, 
of  touching  her  head  and  nodding  suggestively. 

One  afternoon  late  in  the  week.  Mr.  Webb  called 
at  the  cottage.  He  apologised  for  not  having  come 
or  sent  word  before.  "We  have  been  a  little 
alarmed  about  Mrs.  Webb,"  he  said.  "  Indeed,  we 
are  still.  It's  the  effect  of  her  exposure  and  ex- 
citement that  afternoon."  After  what  seemed  to 
Evelyn  a  long  silence,  he  added,  "  I  suppose  we 
ought  to  be  very  patient  with  these  nervous  suf- 
ferers." 

"  Yes,  they  inflict  such  —  such  suffering  on  them- 
selves." 

"  Exactly.     My   wife  has   tortured  herself   for 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      183 

years.  She  has  very  strange  fancies  sometimes,  — 
such  inconsistent  ones,  too.  How  inconsistent  people 
are!  I've  often  thought  it  would  really  be  quite 
impossible  to  put  a  human  being  just  as  he  is  into 
a  novel.  People  would  think  the  character  was  un- 
natural and  the  critics  would  say  it  hadn't  been  held 
together." 

"  That  is  true,"  Evelyn  assented. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Webb  is  such  a  bundle  of  inconsist- 
encies." 

"It's  her  illness,  don't  you  think  so?"  Evelyn 
asked. 

"  Yes,  I  presume  it  is.  I  suppose  all  women 
aren't  so." 

"  I  am  sure  they  are  not." 

"  She  suffers  very  much  from  her  inconsisten- 
cies," he  went  on,  as  if  it  was  a  relief  to  him  to 
talk  about  his  wife.  "  She's  always  regretting 
things  that  she's  done.  She's  a  little  quick-tem- 
pered, you  know ;  her  illness  has  made  her  so.  And 
sometimes  she  says  things  that  she  doesn't  mean. 
She's  lost  a  great  many  friends  that  way." 

"  I  know.     She  told  me." 

"  Ah,  did  she  tell  you  ?  She  has  been  talking 
about  it  a  great  deal  lately,  wishing  that  some  of 
her  old  friends  could  come  back.  Several  of  them 
are  dead  now."  He  paused  for  a  moment,  then  he 
went  on,  "  Do  you  know  she  has  an  idea  that  she 
has  offended  you?" 

Evelyn  flushed  and  shook  her  head;  she  could 
not  trust  herself  to  speak. 

"  I  told  her  so.  I  felt  sure  of  it.  That  is  why 
I  spoke  of  it.  I  knew  you  wouldn't  take  offence 
at  a  few  hasty  words  spoken  in  excitement." 


184      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «S» 

"  I  should  Hke  very  much  to  go  to  see  her,"  said 
Evelyn.  "  Do  you  think  she  would  care  to  see 
me?" 

"  I  am  sure  she  would.  I  —  I  intended  to  ask 
you  —  but  —  " 

"  When  may  I  come  —  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to-morrow  would  do  very  well,  to-morrow 
afternoon.  And  have  you  received  your  part  ?  "  he 
asked,  as  if  anxious  to  change  the  subject.  "  I 
have  told  her  all  about  it.  She  is  very  much  in- 
terested." 


XXVII. 

Whenever  Evelyn  went  to  the  Webbs,  she  felt 
like  apologising  to  Mrs.  Bowen.  So  far  as  she 
knew,  her  friend  had  not  discovered  the  antipathy 
Mrs.  Webb  felt  for  her,  but  she  surely  must  sus- 
pect that  there  was  some  reason  why  she  had  never 
been  urged  to  repeat  her  call.  To-day  she  explained 
that  Mrs.  Webb  was  very  ill  and  had  sent  for  her; 
she  would  probably  stay  only  a  few  moments ;  per- 
haps the  invalid  would  be  unable  to  see  her  at  all. 

While  picking  her  way  along  the  narrow  path 
that  was  used  as  a  short  cut  to  the  top  of  the  hill, 
Evelyn  saw  before  her  a  sprightly  figure  making 
the  descent.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  gait,  the 
red  parasol  and  shoes,  the  blue  sailor  suit.  Evelyn 
looked  around  for  a  chance  to  escape;  there  was 
none.  Besides,  Miss  Finley's  keen  eyes  had  prob- 
ably discovered  her. 

"  How  nice,"  said  the  journalist,  giving  Evelyn 
a  gloved  finger.  "  How  do  you  do  ?  Don't  you 
just  love  this  weather?  No?  I  do.  It  couldn't 
be  too  hot  for  me.  Going  up  to  the  Webbs?  It's 
no  use.  You  can't  see  her.  She's  awfully  sick.  I 
just  asked  for  her  at  the  door." 

Evelyn  said  that  she  should  go  to  the  door,  too, 
and  at  least  leave  a  card. 

"  Leave  a  card !  "  Miss  Finley  repeated,  scorn- 
fully.   "  Leave  a  card  on  a  dying  woman !  " 

i8s 


1 86      «f»      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

"Is  she  dying?"  Evelyn  asked,  shocked. 

"  Of  course  she  is.  I've  heard  all  about  it.  The 
nurse  used  to  be  at  Charity  Hospital.  I  used  to 
know  her  there.  She's  a  protegee  of  Doctor  Grif- 
fiths, and  Doctor  Griffiths  is  a  great  friend  of  mine. 
So  she'd  tell  me  anything.  Mrs.  Webb's  out  of 
her  head  half  the  time,  Mrs.  Bell  says,  and  she 
abuses  her  husband  so.  Poor  man,  I  pity  him. 
He's  just  sacrificed  himself  to  her.  I  guess  if  I 
published  all  I  knew  about  the  Webbs,  it  would 
create  a  sensation.  Such  a  life  as  she's  led  him! 
The  servants  have  told  Mrs.  Bell.  I  think  it  ought 
to  be  written  up.    Such  women  should  be  exposed." 

"  Perhaps  she  isn't  responsible,"   said  Evelyn. 

"  Well,  it's  hard  to  tell  who's  responsible  and  who 
isn't  these  days.  It  makes  me  sick,  —  these  new- 
fangled notions  about  people  not  being  responsible. 
I  guess  she's  responsible  enough,  though  I  do  think 
she's  been  kind  of  cracked  for  years.  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  how  she  acted  once  when  I  went 
there.  You  know  she's  wildly  jealous  of  him.  I'd 
been  to  dine  there,  and  then  I  called,  of  course. 
Well,  I  sent  up  my  card.  She  was  up-stairs,  and 
if  you  could  have  heard  what  she  said  about  me.  I 
could  overhear  every  word." 

"  Has  it  been  mentioned  yet  in  the  papers  that 
she's  so  ill?"  said  Evelyn,  to  change  the  subject. 

"  No ;  I  wrote  a  little  article  about  it  yesterday, 
but  my  managing  editor  wouldn't  publish  it.  But 
he'll  publish  the  one  I'm  going  to  write  to-day. 
I'll  make  him  think  some  other  paper  is  going  to 
get  ahead  of  him  on  it.  There's  an  awful  bright 
fellow  from  the  Item  down  here.  His  name  is 
Chapman.     He's  always  prowling  around,  and  he 


«9*         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^      187 

has  a  wonderful  nose  for  news.  I  have  to  look 
sharp  to  keep  ahead  of  him.  I'm  convinced  that 
he'll  find  out  that  Mrs.  Webb  is  dying  before 
twenty-four  hours  are  over." 

"Dear  me,  dear  me!"  said  Evelyn. 

"  But  he  won't  get  ahead  of  me  on  the  obituary 
notice.  I've  got  that  arranged.  It's  all  written, 
nearly  a  column.  You  know  she  was  a  Bliss ;  heaps 
of  money.  I've  gathered  together  a  lot  of  facts  that 
no  one  else  can  possibly  get.  Mrs.  Bell  has  prom- 
ised to  send  me  word  just  as  soon  as  she  dies." 

"  I  hope  you  won't  have  to  publish  the  notice," 
said  Evelyn.     "  Mrs.  Webb  may  get  well." 

Miss  Finley  shook  her  head.  "  Mrs.  Bell  is  sure 
she's  gone  this  time.  That  rushing  out  after  her 
husband  in  the  storm  the  other  day  settled  her. 
Wasn't  it  disgraceful?  Mrs.  Bell  happened  to  be 
out  of  the  room,  and,  when  she  got  back,  Mrs. 
Webb  had  disappeared.  They  didn't  know  what 
had  become  of  her,  and  they  were  nearly  frightened 
to  death.  The  servants  hunted  everywhere.  They 
had  just  started  to  give  the  alarm  when  she  came 
home.  Well,  I  must  hurry  on.  This  is  my  busy 
time  of  the  week,  getting  ready  for  the  Sunday 
paper.  By  the  way,  I'm  so  glad  you  got  that  splen- 
did New  York  engagement.    I'll  make  a  note  of  it." 

Evelyn  was  prepared  to  find  the  door  of  the 
Webbs  closed  to  callers.  But  when  the  servant 
appeared,  she  was  told  that  Mrs.  Webb  might  be 
able  to  see  her. 

A  moment  later,  Oswald  Webb  descended  the 
stairs. 

"  You  are  very  good  to  come  in  spite  of  the  heat," 
he  said,     "  We  hardly  expected   you.     But  Mrs. 


1 88     ^       A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *$> 

Webb  would  have  been  disappointed  if  you  hadn't 
come.  Yes,  she  seems  to  be  a  Httle  better.  But 
we  can't  tell.  The  doctor  has  warned  us  to  watch 
her  carefully.     Won't  you  come  up  now  ?  " 

Evelyn  followed  him  up  the  broad  staircase.  An 
ominous  silence  prevailed  in  the  house.  As  they 
approached  the  first  floor,  the  noiseless  nurse  glided 
from  one  room  into  another,  bearing  a  small  tray 
in  her  hand.  When  they  entered  Mrs.  Webb's 
room,  they  found  the  invalid  lying  on  the  bed, 
her  long,  thin  arms  stretched  on  the  coverlet.  Her 
face  seemed  thinner  and  yellower  and  more  wrin- 
kled, but  her  eyes  were  bright. 

"  Ah,  you've  come  at  last,"  she  said,  feebly,  and 
with  a  faint  smile,  extending  her  hand.  "  I  was 
afraid  you  wouldn't.  I  was  afraid  you  were 
offended  with  me." 

She  clung  to  the  hand  that  Evelyn  offered  her, 
and  asked  her  to  sit  on  the  bed.  "  I  was  half-crazy 
that  day,"  she  went  on,  abruptly.  "  I  didn't  realise 
what  I  was  saying.  You'll  forgive  me,  won't 
you?" 

Evelyn  assured  her  that  there  was  nothing  to 
forgive;  even  if  there  had  been,  she  would  have 
forgiven  freely  and  fully. 

The  invalid  drew  a  long  breath.  "  I  couldn't 
bear  to  think  that  I  had  you  against  me.  You 
know  I've  liked  you  from  the  first,  because  —  be- 
cause you're  genuine.  And  I  wanted  to  have  a 
little  talk  with  you  —  before  —  "  She  looked 
quickly  around.  "  Oswald,  please  go  away ;  I  want 
to  talk  with  Miss  Johnson  alone." 

"  All  right,  dear,"  he  replied,  quietly.  Then,  as 
he  went  out  of  the  room,  he  turned  and  said,  more. 


«#»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      189 

Evelyn  thought,  for  her  own  sake  than  for  his 
wife's,  "  I'll  be  near  at  hand  if  you  need  me." 

"  Come  over  closer,"  the  invalid  said,  still  cling- 
ing to  Evelyn's  hand.  Her  own  hand  was  hot  and 
moist.  "  I  suppose  you  think  I'm  a  strange  woman. 
Well,  I  am  strange.  I  was  born  so.  I  come  of 
queer  stock ;  there's  something  queer  in  my  family. 
My  life  has  been  an  expiation.  It  has  been  a  long, 
long  torture.  I've  seen  happiness  all  around  me, 
so  near  that  it  seemed  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  stretch 
out  my  hand  and  take  it.  But  it  was  just  beyond 
my  reach,  just  beyond  my  reach." 

As  she  spoke,  she  tried  to  raise  her  head, 
and  moisture  broke  out  on  her  forehead;  she  sank 
back  on  the  pillow.  "  Get  me  that  handkerchief 
over  there  on  the  bureau.  Thanks.  You  see  how 
peremptory  I  am,"  she  added,  with  a  smile.  "  I'm 
used  to  being  obeyed.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better 
for  me  if  I  weren't." 

Evelyn  took  her  place  by  the  bedside  again,  and 
Mrs.  Webb  passed  the  handkerchief  over  her  face, 
and  waited  a  moment  before  going  on.  She  clasped 
her  hands  together  on  the  counterpane  with  the 
handkerchief  between  'them. 

"  This  weather  nearly  kills  me,"  she  gasped. 
"  And  yet  when  it  is  hottest,  I'm  often  cold.  But 
it  won't  last  long." 

"  Yes,  the  summer  will  soon  be  over,"  said 
Evelyn. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  that  I  sha'n't 
last  long.  I'm  going  to  die;  I'm  going  to  die 
soon." 

Evelyn  tried  to  reassure  her  with  the  meaningless 


190       ^     A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f» 

comfort  that  is  offered  to  invaUds.  Mrs.  Webb 
shook  her  head. 

"  You  needn't  talk  to  me  hke  that.  I  know  better. 
I've  been  ill  for  years,  but  I've  never  felt  like  this 
before.  For  the  past  few  days  I've  known  that  I 
was  going.  At  first  it  frightened  me;  it  seemed 
so  terrible  to  go  alone.  That's  the  worst  of  death, 
—  the  loneliness  of  it.  But  now  I'm  resigned  even 
to  that."  She  paused  a  moment,  as  if  to  gain 
breath ;  then  she  went  on  more  quietly :  "  It's  very 
interesting  to  any  one  like  me  to  watch  the  change. 
I've  thought  too  much  about  myself;  but  I  can't 
help  it  now.  Since  three  days  ago  I've  felt  as  if 
I'd  begun  to  cross  the  borderland.  Oh,  it  isn't 
sudden;    death  gives  warning  enough." 

"  I  wouldn't  talk  like  that,  Mrs.  Webb,"  Evelyn 
said.  "  It  only  depresses  you.  I'm  sure  you'll  soon 
be  better." 

The  invalid  shook  her  head.  "  I'm  past  that 
kind  of  consolation.  I  see  things  in  a  way  you  can't 
understand.  I've  been  living  over  my  life,  and  I've 
been  seeing  it  in  its  true  light.  I've  been  a  very 
selfish  woman.  You  needn't  say  I  haven't.  I've 
thought  of  nothing  but  myself.  That's  what's 
spoiled  everything.  Do  you  know  that  most  of 
the  world's  blessings  are  terrible  mockeries? 
They've  been  so  to  me.  They've  made  me  brood 
and  brood,  instead  of  thinking  about  other  people. 
Perhaps  what  I've  suffered  will  be  taken  as  ex- 
piation. You  see  I  still  believe  in  expiation.  Isn't 
that  strange?  It  seems  to  be  rooted  in  my  being. 
I  suppose  it  is  in  my  New  England  blood ;  it's 
an  inheritance  from  my  crazy  Puritan  ancestors. 
Oswald  hasn't  got  it,  not  a  touch  of  it.     Yet  he's 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^      191 

had  to  share  my  expiation,  and  he's  been  so  brave 
and  so  uncomplaining  about  it.  Perhaps  it's  be- 
cause he  robbed  me  of  my  faith  in  God  with  his 
doubts  and  his  arguments  and  his  theories.  I've 
thought  of  that;  I've  thought  of  everything.  Oh, 
if  I  could  only  get  it  back,"  she  wailed,  "  if  I  could 
only  get  it  back.  Ah,  you  don't  understand.  I  can 
see  it  in  your  face.  Sometimes  when  I  think  of 
myself,  I  get  into  despair.  But  I'm  going  to  make 
an  atonement ;  perhaps  that  will  save  me.  You  see 
I  can't  get  away  from  the  old  haunting  terror  that 
was  bred  in  me.     I'm  afraid.     I'm  afraid." 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of,  Mrs.  Webb  ?  " 

Mrs.  Webb  seemed  not  to  have  heard  her.  "  My 
life  has  been  a  waste,  a  dragging  down  of  others. 
Think  what  I've  been  to  my  husband,  a  torment, 
a  trial !  He  has  sacrificed  himself  for  me.  I've 
spoiled  his  career.  Oh,  don't,  don't  say  I  haven't. 
I  know  better,  I  realise  it  now  plainly.  And  yet 
I  thought  I  was  giving  him  everything.  It  was 
just  my  selfishness.    That's  what  I  must  atone  for." 

"  I  am  sure  you  blame  yourself  too  much,"  Eve- 
lyn said.  She  wondered  why  she  was  being  made 
the  recipient  of  these  confidences,  and  she  wished 
that  Mr.  Webb  would  come  back  and  end  them. 

"  You'll  be  surprised  when  you  hear  what  I'm 
going  to  say  to  you,"  the  invalid  went  on,  ignoring 
Evelyn's  remark.  "  I'm  surprised  myself  that  I 
can  say  it.  A  little  while  ago  I  couldn't;  but,  as  I 
said,  everything  has  changed  with  me  lately.  I  can 
do  things  now  that  I  couldn't  have  done  before." 
She  began  to  breathe  hard  again,  and  she  waited, 
as  if  to  gather  strength.     "  Do  you  know,"   she 


192      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

resumed  at  last,  "  that  my  husband  —  that  he's  in 
love  with  you  ?  " 

Evelyn  felt  the  blood  surge  to  her  face;  then, 
for  a  moment,  she  thought  her  heart  stopped  beat- 
ing. "  I  am  sure  you  are  mistaken,"  she  said, 
"  This  is  a  mere  fancy."  She  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands ;  she  was  almost  overwhelmed  with 
shame. 

Mrs.  Webb  looked  at  her  quietly  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  said :  "  I  felt  sure  you  didn't  know.  I 
had  confidence  in  you  —  in  spite  of  my  doubts  at 
first." 

"  You  mustn't  say  such  things,"  Evelyn  ex- 
claimed, passionately.  "  You  have  no  right." 
Then,  when  she  looked  at  the  emaciated  figure 
before  her,  she  blamed  herself.  Of  course,  Mrs. 
Webb  was  not  responsible. 

"  Don't  misunderstand  me,"  the  invalid  went  on. 
"  He  doesn't  realise  it  himself.  But  I  have  seen 
it.  It's  quite  unconscious  on  his  part.  He  won't 
know  till  I'm  gone,  perhaps  for  a  long  time  after. 
These  things  are  very  strange.  You  think  this  is 
very  strange,  too,  don't  you,  my  speaking?  You 
think  it's  strange  that  I  seem  to  care  so  little  about 
it.  But  I  do  care.  I  care  a  great  deal  for  him. 
And  I  know  it's  all  for  the  best." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  such  things,"  said 
Evelyn.  "  Don't  you  see  that  it's  wrong  —  to 
me?" 

"  No,  it  isn't  wrong.  I  want  to  prevent  any 
mistake.  I  want  you  to  know.  You  could  make 
Oswald  happy.  I'm  sure  of  that.  You  would  care 
for  the  things  he  cares  for;  I've  never  done  that 
really.     You  could  encourage  him;    perhaps  you 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^      193 

could  help  him  to  make  up  for  all  these  years  he 
has  wasted  on  me.  You  know  how  much  talent  he 
has,  and  how  little  he's  done  with  it.  It's  all  my 
fault.  I  should  like  to  make  it  up  to  him,  if  I 
could.  Don't  you  see  what  a  sacrifice  I  am  making 
to  tell  you  this?" 

"  It's  a  mistake,"  said  Evelyn,  trying  to  control 
herself.  "  You  will  realise  it  by  and  by,  when  you 
get  better." 

"  When  I  get  better,"  the  invalid  repeated. 
"  Then  I  sha'n't  care.  Now  that  I've  spoken,  I'm 
satisfied;  I  feel  that  I've  done  at  least  one  unself- 
ish thing  in  my  life.  Now  I  feel  tired.  Just  ring 
that  bell,  won't  you?  " 

The  nurse  glided  in  swiftly  and  silently,  and 
Oswald  Webb  followed  her.  Evelyn  hardly  dared 
to  look  him  in  the  face;  she  was  afraid  that  the 
invalid  would  speak  out  before  him  what  she  had 
just  said  to  her.  At  the  thought  of  this  possibil- 
ity, she  felt  faint.  But  Mrs.  Webb  merely  an- 
nounced that  she  had  had  a  good  talk  with  Miss 
Johnson,  and  was  much  better  for  it.  Evelyn  said 
that  she  feared  she  had  tired  her  out,  and  started 
to  go. 

"  You'll  never  see  me  again,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Webb,  taking  her  hand.  "  Now  kiss  me  good-bye. 
There,  good-bye,  good-bye."  Then  she  turned  her 
head  toward  her  husband. 

"  Miss  Johnson  has  great  faith,  Oswald,"  she 
said. 

"  I  wish  we  all  had,"  he  replied,  quietly. 

Something  in  Webb's  manner  evidently  dis- 
pleased the  invalid. 

"  Oswald   is  a  materialist,"   she  cried,   turning 


194      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

her  head  on  the  pillow  to  fix  her  eyes  upon  him. 
"  He  thinks  there's  nothing  in  the  world  but  mat- 
ter, matter.     It's  a  horrible  doctrine." 

He  did  not  attempt  to  argue  with  her.  He  merely 
said :    "  Hush,  dear,  hush !  " 

"  Now  don't  you  talk  to  me  like  that,"  she  cried, 
a  flush  spreading  over  her  yellow  face.  "  I  won't 
have  it.  Do  you  think  a  husband  has  any  right 
to  talk  to  his  wife  like  that,  Miss  Johnson  ?  " 

Evelyn  stood  near  the  bedside.  She  felt  unable 
to  move  or  to  speak. 

"  Why  don't  you  answer  me  ?  "  Mrs.  Webb  cried, 
with  a  sudden  access  of  strength,  after  waiting  a 
moment  for  a  reply.  "  W^hy  don't  you  answer 
me  ?     Are  you  in  league  with  him,  too  ?  " 

"  Miss  Johnson  must  go  now,  dear,"  said  Webb, 
quietly,  seeing  the  look  of  terror  in  Evelyn's  face. 

The  nurse  entered  the  room  with  a  glass  in  her 
hand. 

"  This  will  ease  her,"  she  whispered,  as  she 
dipped  the  spoon  into  the  glass. 

"  Perhaps  I'd  better  go  now,"  said  Evelyn. 

They  did  not  speak  until  they  reached  the  door. 

"  I  hope  it  hasn't  upset  you,"  he  said,  as  he 
opened  the  door  for  her. 


XXVIII. 

Three  days  later  Mrs.  Webb  died.  The  news 
was  conveyed  to  Appleby  Terrace  by  the  Telegraph; 
it  appeared  in  no  other  paper  that  morning.  Evelyn 
thought,  with  a  shudder,  that  Miss  Finley  had  made 
her  "  beat."  The  column  article,  in  which  the  jour- 
nalist's touch  was  plainly  visible,  announced  that  the 
death  had  occurred  about  midnight.  Evelyn  won- 
dered how  Miss  Finley  had  received  word  of  it. 
Could  the  nurse  have  sent  a  messenger  to  The  Wet- 
more  at  that  hour?  Perhaps  Miss  Finley  had  been 
prowling  about  the  house,  fearful  of  a  defeat  by  her 
rival  of  the  Item. 

Evelyn  had  confided  to  no  one  the  story  of  her 
last  talk  with  Mrs.  Webb.  At  first  she  had  felt 
that  she  must  tell  it,  that  she  must  ask  some  one 
for  sympathy;  but  she  could  not  tell  Mrs.  Bowen, 
for  this  indefatigable  correspondent  would  be  sure 
to  rehearse  the  story  to  her  husband.  Roscoe  was 
the  only  one  in  whom  she  could  confide;  he  would 
be  sympathetic  enough ;  but,  after  all,  he  was  only 
a  boy,  and  could  hardly  be  expected  to  understand 
such  things.  She  wondered  uneasily  if  Mrs.  Webb 
had  given  her  husband  an  account  of  their  inter- 
view. Of  course,  the  idea  of  his  being  in  love  with 
her  was  merely  the  fancy  of  an  overwrought  brain ; 
but  it  was  a  fancy  that,  under  the  present  circum- 

195 


196      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

stances,  might  create  painful  embarrassment  be- 
tween them. 

At  the  boarding-house  Mrs.  Appleby  led  in  the 
discussion  of  Mrs.  Webb's  death.  She  openly  de- 
clared she  wasn't  a  bit  sorry.  It  must  be  a  great 
relief  to  poor  Mr.  Webb.  She  had  heard  things 
from  the  Webbs'  servants;  she  guessed,  if  the 
truth  were  known,  Mrs.  Webb  would  be  considered 
a  pretty  disagreeable  sort  of  a  woman.  Pooh!  a 
great  invalid  she  was !  She  had  probably  died  of 
pneumonia,  brought  on  by  her  getting  soaked 
through  the  day  of  the  storm.  Complication  of 
diseases!  Mrs.  Appleby  didn't  believe  it  for  a 
moment. 

From  the  accumulation  of  disturbances  in  her 
life,  Evelyn  began  to  lose  sleep.  Though  she  was 
usually  a  quick  study,  she  had  difficulty  in  com- 
mitting to  memory  the  lines  of  her  new  part.  She 
feared  that  she  was  going  to  be  ill.  It  was  this  fear 
that  roused  her ;  of  course,  if  she  fell  ill,  she  would 
have  to  give  up  her  part,  the  best  chance  she  had 
ever  had.  In  this  way,  she  would  lose  whatever 
prestige  she  had  gained  by  her  Rosalind.  She  de- 
termined to  battle  against  her  depression,  and  she 
threw  herself  energetically  into  her  old  habits  of 
exercise,  which  she  had  begun  to  neglect.  Still, 
sleep  would  not  come  till  half  the  night  was  over, 
and  she  awoke  haggard  and  fatigued. 

One  night  she  determined  to  sit  up  late,  reading, 
in  order  to  tire  herself  out.  She  heard  twelve 
o'clock  striking  in  the  distance.  She  put  her  hand 
to  her  head,  and  found  that  it  was  hot;  her  glass 
showed  her  that  her  cheeks  were  flushed.  The  little 
room,  though  the  window  had  been  open,  was  hot, 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^      197 

almost  stifling  from  the  flaring  gas.  It  would  be 
impossible  to  sleep  in  such  an  atmosphere.  So  she 
decided  to  put  out  the  light,  to  open  her  door  in 
order  to  create  a  draught,  and  to  go  and  sit  on  the 
porch.  She  threw  on  a  wrap,  and  stole  quietly 
down  the  stairs.  She  had  some  difficulty  in  opening 
the  front  door,  which  Mrs.  Appleby,  with  a  woman's 
timorous  forethought,  always  bolted  and  barred 
with  superfluous  appliances. 

The  air  was  heavy  with  moisture  from  the  sea; 
the  sky  was  of  a  deep  blackness,  relieved  only  by 
occasional  stars.  She  sat  on  one  of  the  red  benches 
on  the  porch,  and  drew  her  wrap  close  around  her ; 
the  dampness  made  her  shiver.  For  half  an  hour 
she  looked  out  on  the  ocean  and  watched  the  inter- 
mittent gleam  of  Minot's  Light.  There  was 
scarcely  a  sound.  She  lived  over  again  the  events 
of  the  past  few  weeks,  and  contrasted  them  with 
the  quiet  and  happy  summer  of  the  year  before. 
She  wondered  if  she  ever  should  be  happy  again; 
some  people,  she  believed,  were  destined  for  unhap- 
piness  all  their  lives.  A  long,  struggling  existence 
stretched  out  before  her,  a  vista  of  dubious  engage- 
ments, of  weary  travel,  of  second-class  hotels,  of 
bad  press-notices,  of  the  endless  worry  about  the 
next  season. 

Suddenly  she  thought  she  heard  some  one  coming 
up  the  road.  She  wondered  who  could  be  out  walk- 
ing so  late  at  night.  She  listened,  and  distinctly 
heard  steps  approaching.  It  was  so  dark  that  she 
could  not  have  seen  any  one  that  passed  the  cottage ; 
so  she  was  not  afraid  of  being  perceived  herself. 
The  steps  drew  nearer;  they  were  slow  and  regu- 
lar, and  suggested  the  heavy  tramp  of  a  long-gaited 


198      «9»      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

man.  Presently,  she  could  faintly  distinguish  the 
outlines  of  a  fig^e.  When  it  reached  Appleby 
Terrace,  it  stopped,  and  she  was  startled  to  see  it 
turn  and  walk  up  to  the  piazza.  Her  heart  beat 
fast,  and  she  rose  quickly  to  make  her  escape  into 
the  house.  As  she  hurried  to  the  door,  the  figure 
stood  suddenlj'  still,  and  she  heard  an  exclamation 
of  surprise.  Then  a  voice  that  she  thought  she 
recognised  said : 

"  I  b^  pardon.  I  didn't  know  any  one  was 
here." 

She  stood  on  the  threshold  and  clung  to  the  knob 
of  the  door.    "  Is  that  you,  Mr.  Webb?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  the  voice  replied.  "  This  is  Miss  John- 
son, isn't  it?  I'm  very  sorry.  I'm  afraid  I've 
frightened  you." 

"  Oh,  no,  only  a  little.  I  couldn't  imagine  who 
it  was."  She  continued  standing  at  the  door,  un- 
certain what  to  do. 

"  I  intended  to  rest  here  for  a  moment  before 
making  the  pull  up  the  hill.  I've  been  taking  a  long 
walk." 

"  Then  do  sit  do^^^^,"  said  Evelyn. 

"  It's  rather  late  for  a  call.  Will  you  sit  down, 
too?" 

"  Certainly,"  she  replied,  with  a  feeling  of  em- 
barrassment at  meeting  him  under  such  circum- 
stances, for  the  first  time  since  his  wife's  death. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  your  trouble,"  she  said,  as 
she  took  her  seat  on  the  bench  again.  She  could 
not  think  of  any  but  the  foolish  conventional  words 
in  which  to  express  her  sympathy. 

"  Thank  you.  I  knew  )'ou  would  be  sorry.  It 
was  quite  unexpected  —  at  the  end.     No  matter 


«♦►         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      199 

how  long  you  may  be  prepared  for  it,  death  always 
comes  as  a  surprise."  He  leaned  forward  and  cov- 
ered his  face  with  his  hands.  "  I  can't  sleep  these 
nights,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  That  is  why  I  take  my 
long  walks.  I've  just  been  over  to  Hull.  It's  a 
pretty  good  stretch  —  six  miles  each  way,  at  least." 
For  a  moment  they  sat  without  speaking.  "  Sleep- 
lessness takes  all  the  moral  and  physical  support 
away  from  me.  But  one  can  do  a  great  deal  of 
thinking  in  the  silence  of  the  night." 

*'  Too  much,"  said  Evelyn,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  Yes,  that  is  true.  There  are  times  when  it's 
best  not  to  think  at  all." 

"  Those  are  just  the  times  when  you  can't  help 
thinking  most." 

"  If  we  could  only  forget  painful  things,  and 
remember  those  that  are  pleasant,"  said  Webb. 
"  It's  what  has  been  done  and  what  has  been  lost 
that  bothers  us."  Then,  after  a  pause,  he  went  on : 
"  I  suppose  every  one  wants  to  live  over  his  life 
again  and  undo  mistakes.  If  we  could  have  our 
wish,  we  might  not  make  the  same  mistakes;  but 
we'd  make  others  just  as  bad." 

"  Some  of  us  don't  want  to  live  our  lives  over 
again,"  Evelyn  said,  quietly.     "  Once  is  enough." 

His  face  brightened.  "  It  would  be  horrible  to 
have  regrets  for  more  than  one  life,  wouldn't  it? 
But  lately,  I've  been  thinking  that,  if  I  only  had 
youth  back  again,  I  should  do  with  it  far  more  than 
I  have  done.  *  Give  me  youth,  and  I  will  conquer 
the  world.'  Isnl  that  the  most  melancholy  saying 
ever  invented?  It's  a  terrible  thing  for  a  man  to 
feel  that  he  had  made  a  failure  of  his  chances." 

"  But  you  surely  can't  feel  that  way." 


loo      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

"  That  is  just  how  I  do  feel.  I  am  forty-three 
years  old,  and  what  have  I  done  with  my  life? 
Before  I  was  twenty-seven,  I  wrote  two  books. 
They  had  some  success,  and  people  predicted  great 
things  for  me.  But  I've  never  accomplished  the 
great  things.  I've  simply  rested  on  the  poor  little 
laurels  that  I  won  in  the  enthusiasm  of  youth. 
The  best  years  of  my  life,  the  mature  years,  have 
been  wasted.  And  now  I'm  just  going  into  the  sere 
and  yellow  leaf." 

"  Is  forty-three  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf  ?  I  didn't 
know  it  began  so  early." 

"  It  has  begun  for  me,  I'm  afraid,"  he  laughed. 
"  I  feel  old  and  rusty." 

"  But  so  many  writers  have  done  their  best  things 
after  forty." 

"  Yes,  I've  thought  of  that.  But  they  had  been 
hard  at  work  for  years;  they'd  been  preparing 
themselves.     I've  been  going  to  seed." 

"  I'm  sure  it  isn't  too  late  —  to  —  to  go  on 
again."  As  soon  as  she  spoke,  she  felt  ashamed ; 
her  remark  seemed  like  presumption.  But  Oswald 
Webb  took  it  very  seriously. 

"  Don't  you  think  so  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  have  been 
wondering.  I've  thought  of  it  —  of  trying  all  over 
again.  Ever  since  I  got  married,  I've  been  a  dilet- 
tante. I  lost  my  spur  then.  I  had  a  rich  wife.  I 
didn't  need  to  work.  There's  no  incentive  like  pov- 
erty." 

"  True,"  said  Evelyn,  fervently. 

"  I  might  go  on  leading  the  life  of  a  dilettante  all 
my  days,  if  I  chose.  It's  pleasant  —  in  some  ways. 
But,  after  all,  there's  nothing  like  being  in  the  strug- 
gle of  life.     Even  if  you  fail,  there's  something 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      201 

exhilarating  in  it.  •  I  missed  it  at  first.  I  didn't 
know  what  the  matter  was.  Besides,  I  was  enjoy- 
ing the  novelty  of  having  plenty  of  money,  and 
buying  all  the  books  I  needed.  I  read  and  read, 
and  by  and  by  I  lost  the  impulse  to  write  anything 
extended.  I  let  things  drop.  I  merely  clung  to  my 
reviewing  as  a  kind  of  excuse." 

"  But  you  must  be  so  much  better  equipped  for 
writing  now  than  you  were  before,"  said  Evelyn. 
"  You  must  know  life  so  much  better." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  ought  to  have  profited  by  my  ex- 
perience. Perhaps  I  have.  But  it's  hard  to  get 
the  impulse  again.  Besides,  I've  lost  the  habit  of 
studying  life.  I've  studied  only  books."  Then  he 
seemed  suddenly  to  feel  that  he  had  talked  too  much 
about  himself.  He  rose  quickly  and  said :  "  You 
must  forgive  me  for  boring  you  with  these  things." 

"  They  don't  bore  me,"  Evelyn  replied.  "  They 
interest  me  very  much.  Only  —  I  hope  —  I  hope 
you  will  —  that  you  will  begin  again." 

"  Perhaps  if  you  encourage  me,  I  will,"  he  said, 
with  a  smile.     "  I  need  incentive." 

She  felt  her  face  growing  hot  in  the  dark,  and 
she  was  glad  he  could  not  see  it.  Her  mind  went 
back  to  her  last  talk  with  Mrs.  Webb. 

"  I  suppose  every  one  needs  incentive." 

"  Some  of  us  more  than  others.  We  have  to 
be  helped  out  of  a  groove.  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
in  a  deep  rut.  I'm  not  contented  there,  and  yet 
it's  hard  work  to  get  out." 

He  turned  and  started  to  leave  the  porch.  "  You 
must  forgive  me  for  making  such  an  unconventional 
call,"  he  whispered,  looking  back  from  the  darkness. 

She  made  no  reply,  for  she  was  just  closing  the 


202      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

heavy  door.  When  she  reached  her  room,  she  sat 
on  the  bed  for  several  moments  without  lighting 
the  gas.  She  thought  of  Mrs.  Webb,  as  she  had 
appeared  on  the  day  of  their  last  talk,  haggard  and 
worn  and  bright-eyed.  Then  she  lit  the  gas.  She 
opened  a  little  cabinet  in  the  corner  of  the  room 
and  drew  out  a  small  box,  and  from  it  she  took 
a  cabinet  photograph  of  Harold  Seymour.  It  was 
one  that  she  had  seen  in  a  shop  window  in  Cleve- 
land, a  few  weeks  after  their  engagement  was 
broken,  and  had  bought.  For  a  long  time  she 
looked  at  it.  She  remembered  wonderingly  the 
emotion  the  sight  of  it  had  once  given  her.  Then 
she  put  it  back  in  the  box,  placed  the  box  in  the 
cabinet,  and  went  to  bed. 


XXIX. 

During  the  last  two  weeks  of  her  summer  at 
Cohasset,  Evelyn  was  able  to  take  a  complete  rest. 
She  mastered  her  part,  and  she  felt  no  worry  for 
the  immediate  future.  As  a  rule,  at  the  beginning 
of  a  season,  especially  since  she  had  been  on  the 
road,  she  felt  depressed;  she  had  a  fear  that  she 
might  be  unequal  to  the  task  before  her.  But  now 
she  looked  forward  to  her  work  in  New  York ;  her 
success  with  Rosalind  had  given  her  confidence, 
and  she  had  before  her  an  opportunity  to  win  a 
position  that  might  keep  her  in  comfort  for  sev- 
eral years.  Her  only  regret  in  going  back  to  New 
York  was  in  leaving  Appleby  Terrace,  which  had 
grown  to  seem  like  home. 

The  day  before  she  left  Cohasset,  Oswald  Webb 
came  to  say  good-bye.  He  seemed  to  be  in  unusu- 
ally good  spirits,  and  he  talked  animatedly. 

"  I  think  of  going  on  to  New  York  before  very 
long,"  he  said,  "  on  business.  You  can't  imagine 
what  a  business  man  I've  become  lately.  I'm  deep 
in  affairs.  They've  offered  me  an  interest  in  a 
magazine,  —  The   Universe." 

"  Do  you  think  of  giving  up  the  Argus? "  Eve- 
lyn asked,  in  surprise. 

"  I  thought  of  it.     I'm  tired  of  reviewing.     It's 

desperately  dry  and  unsatisfactory  work.     It  isn't 

literature,  and  it  isn't  journalism." 

203 


204     *^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *<► 

"  I  should  think  that  magazine  work  would  be 
much  more  interesting." 

"  Yes,  it's  Hke  being  in  the  thick  of  the  literary 
fight.  I  should  enjoy  that.  I  feel  like  an  old  war- 
horse  that  longs  for  the  smell  of  powder  again. 
Then  I  have  some  ideas  of  my  own  about  magazine 
editing." 

"  When  will  you  come  on  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  exactly.  Possibly  not  at  all.  I 
don't  know  just  what  the  condition  of  the  property 
is.  I  must  find  that  out  before  I  think  seriously 
of  taking  an  interest.  They  are  flattering  enough 
to  say  they  want  me  to  take  charge  because  they 
think  I  could  push  it  ahead." 

"But  wouldn't  it  interfere  with  your  writing?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  should  write  just  the  same."  Then 
he  added,  with  a  laugh :  "  I  could  publish  my  own 
work  in  it.  That's  part  of  the  proposition  they've 
made  to  me.  You  see,  I'm  not  altogether  forgotten 
in  spite  of  my  years  of  unproductiveness."  As  he 
rose  to  leave,  he  said :  "  I  shall  certainly  see  you 
in  your  new  part,  whether  I  take  hold  of  the  Uni- 
verse or  not.  But  the  production  of  a  first  play  by 
Thayer  is  a  great  event,  you  know,  and  it  will  be 
worth  an  article  in  the  Argus.  So  I'll  be  there  to 
write  it.  Be  prepared  for  a  very  sharp  criticism," 
he  concluded,  smiling. 

Evelyn  felt  keenly  the  parting  with  her  friends 
at  Appleby  Terrace.  Compared  with  the  life  of 
New  York,  with  its  hordes  of  rushing,  struggling, 
contending  workers,  Cohasset  seemed  in  her  eyes  a 
kind  of  heaven.  Mrs.  Bowen  was  unable  to  re- 
strain her  grief.  She  had  a  clinging  nature,  and, 
m  the  absence  of  her  husband,  she  had  clung  to 


*^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^      205 

Evelyn.  Mr.  Bowen  would  not  return  to  Boston 
for  three  weeks,  and  she  dreaded  the  interval  during 
which  she  should  be  without  the  companionship 
that  she  craved.  She  consoled  herself,  however, 
with  the  thought  that,  on  Evelyn's  departure,  she 
would  gain  a  new  correspondent;  they  promised 
fervently  to  write  to  each  other,  and  Mrs.  Bowen 
declared  that,  if  she  possibly  could,  she  would  make 
her  husband  take  her  to  New  York  to  see  Evelyn 
in  her  new  part.  The  boys  said,  too,  that  they 
would  go  on  to  see  her  if  they  were  able ;  but  college 
would  just  be  opening  then,  and  they  would  have 
to  be  on  hand.  The  company  would  come  to  Bos- 
ton, wouldn't  it?  All  the  good  New  York  plays 
did  after  awhile.  Evelyn  had  heard  that,  if  the 
piece  was  successful,  it  would  run  in  New  York 
all  winter;  but  perhaps  it  would  be  played  in  Bos- 
ton in  the  spring.  As  she  left  Appleby  Terrace, 
the  boarders  gave  her  an  ovation.  Mrs.  Appleby 
was  in  tears,  and  her  husband,  who,  though  it  was 
only  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  had  paid  her  the 
high  compliment  of  getting  up  early  to  bid  her 
good-bye,  manifested  a  decorous  regret.  Mrs. 
Bowen  and  the  boys  went  down  in  the  barge  with 
her;  they  were  driven  by  the  man  who  had  taken 
her  up  from  the  wharf  on  the  day  of  her  arrival; 
when  he  helped  her  to  enter,  he  smiled.  Evelyn 
thought  with  a  sigh  of  her  stolen  money ;  but,  with 
the  prospect  of  a  lucrative  engagement  in  mind, 
the  loss  seemed  much  easier  to  bear.  Ned  made  an 
ejfifort  to  be  gay;  but  he  was  not  seconded  by  the 
other  boys,  and,  as  they  reached  the  landing,  he 
lapsed  into  silence. 

The  parting  at  the  wharf  was  the  severest  trial 


2o6     ♦     A  Daughter  of  Thespis 


of  all  to  Evelyn.  It  meant  to  her  the  knell  of  the 
most  eventful  summer  of  her  life.  She  took  her 
seat  on  the  upper  deck  of  the  boat,  and  saw  the 
shores  of  Nantasket  recede  from  her  with  a  sickly 
sinking  of  the  heart.  But  the  day  was  bright,  and 
land  and  water  sparkled  in  the  sunshine ;  the  world 
was  still  beautiful,  though  her  spirit  might  be  heavy, 
and  before  she  reached  Boston  she  felt  better. 

She  took  the  one  o'clock  train  for  New  York, 
went  straight  from  the  station  to  the  old  place  in 
Twenty-third  Street,  where  she  had  written  of  her 
coming,  and  spent  the  evening  in  running  over  her 
part  in  order  to  be  sure  of  her  lines  for  the  rehearsal 
in  the  morning.  This  was  an  unnecessary  precau- 
tion, as  most  of  the  actors,  during  the  first  few 
rehearsals,  would  probably  read  their  lines  from 
the  manuscript.  The  noise  of  the  cable-cars  kept 
her  from  sleeping  soundly,  and,  when  she  woke 
late  in  the  morning,  and  found  herself  in  her  new 
surroundings,  she  felt  again  the  sense  of  desolation 
that  had  afflicted  her  on  leaving  Cohasset.  By 
her  arrangement  at  the  boarding-house,  she  was  to 
take  her  breakfast  in  her  room  at  her  own  conve- 
nience; after  her  work  at  night,  she  could  not  be 
expected  to  appear  in  the  dining-room  early  in  the 
morning  with  the  other  boarders.  When  she  had 
rung  the  bell  for  her  coffee  and  toast,  it  was  past 
ten  o'clock.  She  hurried  in  order  to  appear  at  the 
theatre  promptly  at  eleven. 

To  reach  the  stage  entrance,  she  had  to  walk 
down  a  dingy  back  street.  At  the  door  she  met 
Harry  Davidson,  who  was  just  about  to  enter.  He 
stepped  back  to  allow  her  to  pass.  She  thought 
he  was  going  to  speak,  but  he  merely  smiled.     She 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»      207 

walked  down  the  dimly  lighted  corridor  to  the  stage, 
hoping  to  meet  some  one  she  knew  who  should 
introduce  her  to  the  other  members  of  the  company. 
In  the  wings  a  group  of  men  and  women  were  sit- 
ting on  wooden  chairs;  it  was  too  dark  to  see  who 
they  were,  but,  amid  the  noise  of  the  talk  and 
laughter,  she  thought  she  heard  Helen  GkDrdon's 
smooth  tones.  Harry  Davidson  was  walking  close 
behind  her,  and,  as  she  approached  the  group,  some 
one  recognised  him  and  shouted   a  greeting. 

"  Why,  how  are  you,  old  man  ?  "  said  a  stout, 
middle-aged  actor,  springing  from  his  chair  and 
offering  the  actor  his  hand.  The  others  in  the 
group  stood  up,  and  there  was  general  hand-shaking 
and  introducing,  Evelyn  stood  apart  and  waited 
for  the  excitement  over  the  favourite  to  subside. 
She  could  now  see  Miss  Gordon  distinctly;  she 
was  smiling  at  Davidson.  Her  face  was  more  sun- 
burned than  it  had  been  at  Cohasset;  she  looked 
as  if  she  had  been  yachting.  She  wore  a  tight- 
fitting  dress  of  blue  cloth,  and  one  of  her  coquettish 
little  hats,  perched  on  the  top  of  her  head  and  only 
half-covering  her  glossy  hair.  She  was  so  absorbed 
in  the  conversation  around  her  that  for  several 
moments  she  did  not  notice  Evelyn.  When,  how- 
ever, she  did  perceive  her,  she  uttered  an  exclama- 
tion of  delight. 

"  Why,  when  did  you  come  in  ?  "  she  cried,  clasp- 
ing Evelyn's  hand.  "  I'm  delighted  to  see  you 
again.    I've  been  watching  out  for  you." 

She  turned  from  the  group,  and  for  the  next 
few  moments  devoted  herself  to  a  discussion  of 
Cohasset  affairs. 

"  You  know  I  left  Cohasset  rather  suddenly," 


2o8      -^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

she  said  "  I  really  couldn't  stand  that  Miss  Finley 
any  longer.  I  was  so  disgusted  when  I  found  she 
had  got  up  the  performance  just  for  her  own  glory 
and  profit.  Do  you  know  how  much  the  Fresh 
Air  Fund  got  out  of  it?  " 

Evelyn  replied  that  she  hadn't  heard. 
"  Just  fifteen  dollars,"  said  Miss  Gordon,  dra- 
matically, looking  at  Evelyn  to  observe  the  effect 
of  this  information.  "  Miss  Finley  confessed  to  me 
in  the  greatest  secrecy;  but,  of  course,  I  know  I 
can  tell  you.  Isn't  it  a  shame?  She  just  threw 
money  away  in  advertising  the  thing." 

"  I  wonder  where  Madge  Guernsey  is,"  said  Eve- 
lyn.   "  Have  you  seen  her  yet  ?  " 
"  No,"  Miss  Gordon  replied,  coldly. 
"  She's  always  late  for   rehearsal.      She  wrote 
me  that  she  would  surely  be  on  hand." 

Several  actors  had  come  in;  Miss  Gordon  led 
Evelyn  from  group  to  group  and  introduced  her 
to  her  new  associates.  The  company  was  unusually 
large.  The  actors  and  actresses,  two-thirds  of 
whom  had  just  returned  from  the  seashore  and  the 
mountains,  were  entertaining  one  another  with 
stories  of  their  experiences.  They  all  seemed  to 
be  as  light-hearted  as  children,  and,  after  being 
introduced,  they  treated  one  another  as  if  they  had 
been  intimately  acquainted  for  years.  The  seared- 
looking  old  men  were  as  lively  as  the  effeminate 
and  affected  youths  who  were  to  play  the  small 
parts. 

It  was  nearly  half-past  eleven,  and  Evelyn  won- 
dered why  the  rehearsal  was  not  called.  Saunder- 
son  was  bustling  from  place  to  place,  and  Hickey, 
the  stage-manager,  seemed  to  be  intensely  nervous. 


«#»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      209 

"  This  is  a  pretty  tickhsh  piece  to  put  on,"  she 
heard  him  say  to  Harry  Davidson.  "  If  it  goes 
at  all,  it'll  be  a  great  go.  But  if  it  don't,  there'll 
be  an  awful  fizzle."  Some  one  then  asked  him 
what  they  were  waiting  for,  and  he  said  the  author 
was  coming  to  give  some  preliminary  directions. 
Evelyn  was  glad  of  the  delay  for  Madge's  sake; 
she  should  have  to  give  Madge  a  lecture;  her  dila- 
toriness  might  prejudice  the  management  against 
her.  At  quarter  of  twelve,  she  heard  a  rustling 
of  skirts  and  heavy  breathing  coming  from  the  di- 
rection of  the  stage-door.  She  rose  from  her  seat 
in  the  wings  and  looked  around.  In  a  moment 
Madge  was  embracing  her. 

"  Am  I  very  late  ?  "  Madge  gasped. 

"  We  haven't  begun  yet,"  Evelyn  replied. 

"  Thank  goodness !  I  was  afraid  I'd  queered 
myself  the  first  day.  But  I  couldn't  get  here  any 
sooner.  Oh,  I've  had  a  terrible  time.  It's  Jimmy 
Wise.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  by-'n'-by.  He 
insisted  on  coming  with  me  yesterday.  He  would 
follow  me.  He's  been  pestering  me  so.  He's  at 
the  Grand  Hotel." 

"  What  has  he  been  pestering  you  about  ?  "  Eve- 
lyn asked,  smiling  at  the  incoherence  of  Madge's 
remarks. 

"  Why,  he  wanted  me  to  promise  to  marry  him 
before  I  left.  But  I  wouldn't  —  that's  all.  So  he 
followed  me.  He  came  to  call  this  morning  and 
began  again.     It's  been  perfectly  awful." 


XXX. 

Years  afterward,  in  speaking  of  the  rehearsals 
of  his  first  play,  Leonard  Thayer  used  to  say  he 
wondered  why  the  actors  hadn't  killed  him,  or  why 
they  hadn't  at  least  thrown  him  out  of  the  theatre. 
He  was  intensely  nervous ;  nothing  seemed  to  please 
him;  he  criticised  severely  the  stage-settings,  the 
business  and  the  readings  of  the  actors,  sometimes 
even  their  pronunciation,  involving  himself  in  tire- 
some disputes,  which  prolonged  the  rehearsals  till 
the  stage-manager  was  on  the  verge  of  despair. 
He  sat  in  the  back  of  the  theatre,  or,  rather,  he 
stood  most  of  the  time,  for  he  could  not  keep  still, 
and  from  the  darkness  he  yelled  his  directions  in 
a  sharp  and  irritating  voice.  With  Miss  Gordon 
he  was  least  severe;  her  quick  intelligence  at  once 
seized  and  developed  his  suggestions.  He  worked 
hard  with  Evelyn;  her  conception,  he  told  her, 
was  correct  enough,  but  she  did  not  carry  it  out 
consistently.  One  day  she  became  so  discouraged 
that  she  went  into  the  wings  and  cried.  She  tried 
desperately  to  please  him,  but  it  was  not  until  the 
last  rehearsal  that  he  expressed  satisfaction.  With 
Harry  Davidson  he  nearly  came  to  blows.  David- 
son was  not  used  to  being  treated  as  if  he  were  a 
novice.  He  had  his  own  methods,  he  declared,  and 
both  managers  and  audiences  were  willing  to  ac- 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      *^      2H 

cept  them.  If  Mr.  Thayer  didn't  Hke  the  way  he 
played  the  part,  why,  he  could  get  some  one  else, 
that  was  all.  This  quarrel  took  place  on  Sunday 
night,  at  the  dress  rehearsal,  which  Thayer  had 
presumed  to  interrupt.  Davidson  thrust  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  walked  to  the  footlights,  and  as- 
sumed his  prize-fighter  expression;  he  evidently 
wished  to  put  the  matter  on  personal  grounds.  But 
Leonard  Thayer  never  had  a  greater  desire  to  be 
impersonal ;  he  explained,  with  a  change  of  manner, 
that  he  had  not  intended  to  offend  Mr.  Davidson; 
he  knew  that  Mr.  Davidson  could  play  the  part 
better  than  any  one  else,  if  he  would  only  follow 
his  suggestions ;  but,  if  he  followed  his  own  whims, 
the  piece  would  be  ruined.  Couldn't  Mr.  Davidson 
understand  that  ?  But  Mr.  Davidson  only  grunted, 
and  went  on  playing  in  a  more  slovenly  manner 
than  before,  to  the  dejection  of  the  author.  Eve- 
lyn's sympathies  were  wholly  with  Thayer.  In 
her  judgment,  Harry  Davidson  vulgarised  the  part ; 
but  she  knew  that  the  public  would  accept  anything 
from  Davidson. 

A  few  days  before  the  performance,  Evelyn  re- 
ceived a  note  from  Oswald  Webb,  saying  that  he 
should  be  on  hand  for  the  first  night.  His  negotia- 
tions with  the  Universe  people  were  off  —  for  the 
present,  at  least.  The  stock  was  so  tied  up  that 
for  a  year  he  could  make  no  satisfactory  arrange- 
ment; so  he  would  continue  his  work  for  the 
Argils,  and  probably  do  more  work  than  before; 
the  dramatic  critic  had  gone  to  the  Item  on  a  higher 
salary,  and  Stebbins  had  asked  him  to  help  out. 
He  had  begun  the  new  novel,  and  he  had  already 
finished  three  chapters,  but  he  wasn't  satisfied;   he 


212      ♦      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         -^^ 


would  go  on  and  see  what  he  could  make  out  of  it ; 
it  was  doubtful  if  he  should  offer  it  to  a  publisher ; 
it  would  be  unwise  for  him  to  bring  out  a  novel 
inferior  to  his  earlier  work.  However,  he  was 
enjoying  the  glow  of  authorship,  and  perhaps  there 
was  something  in  literature  for  him  yet. 

Evelyn  did  not  hear  from  him  again  before  the 
first  night.  She  went  to  the  theatre  early;  but 
Madge  Guernsey  was  already  there.  At  Evelyn's 
request,  they  had  been  assigned  to  the  same  dress- 
ing-room. Madge,  who  had  suffered  from  Thayer's 
criticism,  was  very  nervous.  The  author,  for  whom 
she  had  conceived  one  of  her  most  violent  antipa- 
thies, had  obliged  her  to  moderate  her  exuberance, 
and  she  was  afraid  that  the  restraint  would  spoil 
her  work.  She  was  determined,  however,  to  look 
as  pretty  as  she  could,  and  she  devoted  considerable 
time  and  care  to  dressing  and  making-up. 

As  Mathilde,  Evelyn  had  to  make  a  point  of 
simplicity  in  dress  as  well  as  in  manner.  She  was 
surprised  to  find  that  she  was  less  nervous  than 
her  companion;  as  a  rule,  on  first  nights,  she  suf- 
fered from  the  strain.  But  she  knew  herself  to  be 
in  sympathy  with  her  part,  and  this  feeling  gave 
her  confidence.  She  had  the  task,  disagreeable  to 
actors,  of  opening  the  piece;  she  had  to  be  on  the 
stage  before  the  curtain  went  up.  When  she  went 
out  to  take  her  place,  she  found  Leonard  Thayer 
standing  at  the  edge  of  the  curtain,  looking  out. 

The  stage  was  empty,  and  only  the  electrician 
stood  in  the  wings.  From  the  other  side  of  the 
curtain  came  the  sound  of  the  flapping  of  the  seats, 
the  quick  steps  of  the  ushers,  and  the  rustle  of  the 
people  going  down  to  their  places. 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»      213 

When  Thayer  heard  her  footsteps,  he  turned 
quickly.  "  Oh,  good  evening.  Miss  Johnson,"  he 
said,  with  a  smile.  He  had  very  bright  eyes  and 
a  sensitive  mouth  with  thin  lips,  half-covered  by  a 
brown  moustache.  "  How  well  you  look.  You 
are  just  right." 

"  I've  tried  to  follow  your  description  in  the 
novel,"  she  replied. 

"  You've  read  it,  then  ?  I  wonder  how  many  of 
the  actors  have  taken  the  trouble  to  do  that.  Not 
many,  I'm  afraid." 

"  I  had  read  it  before  I  got  the  part." 

"  That's  even  a  greater  compliment,"  he  said, 
laughing.     "  I  hope  you  liked  it." 

"  Yes,  very  much.  I  like  all  your  stories.  I've 
read  them  all." 

"  Well,  this  is  flattery.    Which  do  you  like  best  ?  " 

"  Oh,  *  Myrna,'  of  course." 

He  burst  into  subdued  laughter.  "  That  always 
amuses  me,"  he  said.  "  Nearly  every  one  tells  me 
that,  except  other  writers ;  they  like  the  *  Myrna ' 
least  of  all.    You  know,  it  was  my  first  story." 

"  Yes,  I  knew  it  was." 

"  I  feel  now  as  if  it  had  been  written  by  some 
one  else."  He  burst  into  his  smothered  laughter 
again.  "  Why,"  he  went  on,  "  whenever  I  see  it 
about  —  in  people's  houses,  I  feel  like  blushing." 

"  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  it,"  Evelyn  replied, 
with  a  smile.  '*  But  you  have  changed  very  much 
since  then.  "  I've  often  wondered  why,"  she  added. 
"  I  know  there  must  have  been  a  reason." 

"  How  clever  you  are ! "  he  said,  quizzically. 
Then  he  went  on  more  seriously.  "  Perhaps  I'll  tell 
you  about  it  sometime.    You  know  we  can't  always 


214      *f»      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         <P» 

keep  our  illusions.  Haven't  you  found  that  out 
in  your  stage  life  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  had  any,"  Evelyn  re- 
plied, smiling. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with  a  half-amused 
air,  "  you're  full  of  them  still.  I  can  tell  that  from 
your  acting.  Now  Miss  Gordon  hasn't  one  illu- 
sion." 

"  Is  that  why  she's  such  a  good  actress,  do  you 
think?" 

"  Possibly.  But  I'm  not  reflecting  on  your  work 
when  I  say  that.  She  acts  wholly  from  the  head; 
you  act  from  the  heart.  It's  a  treat  to  the  emotions 
to  see  you.  There's  as  much  difference  between 
your  acting  and  hers  as  there  is  between  '  Myrna  * 
and  my  other  stories." 

"  I  am  *  Myrna,'  I  suppose." 

"  Exactly." 

"  And  you're  ashamed  of  *  Myrna.'  " 

"  Oh,  no,  not  that  way,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"  You  really  owe  me  an  explanation." 

"  Now  you  oblige  me  to  confess  something,"  he 
said.  "  I  am  really  very  proud  of  *  Myrna  ' ;  only 
she's  too  good  for  me;  she  makes  me  feel  like  a 
hypocrite.  Do  you  know,"  he  went  on,  turning 
again  to  the  edge  of  the  curtain,  and  adroitly  chang- 
ing the  subject,  "  we're  going  to  have  an  uncom- 
monly fine  audience?  Wouldn't  you  like  to  look 
out  ?  "  he  added,  pulling  back  the  curtain  a  little. 

"  I  know  a  better  place  than  that,"  she  replied, 
moving  over  toward  the  woodwork  a  few  feet  away 
from  him.     "  Some  one  has  bored  a  hole  here." 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  very  much  excited," 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  as  they  both  looked  out, 


♦^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     «f»      215 

"  but  I  don't  feel  half  so  nervous  as  I've  been  feel- 
ing for  a  whole  week.  Perhaps  I've  worn  out  my 
capacity  for  worrying." 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  sit  in  a  box  ?  "  Evelyn 
asked. 

"  Yes ;  there's  my  box,  —  the  lower  right-hand 
one.  The  old  lady  with  white  hair  is  my  mother. 
She  cut  her  Europe  short  this  summer  just  to  see 
my  triumph.  I  hope  she  won't  be  disappointed. 
The  man  with  her  is  Willard  Mayo,"  Thayer  went 
on,  referring  to  a  stout,  middle-aged  man,  with  a 
large,  round  face,  bright  black  eyes,  and  a  heavy, 
drooping  black  moustache.  "  You  know  his  stories, 
perhaps.  He's  been  very  popular;  but  he's  getting 
a  little  lazy ;  he  hasn't  been  doing  much  lately.  He 
wrote  a  play  once,  too.  It  ran  a  hundred  nights 
at  the  Gotham  Theatre.  Then  it  died,  and  he's  been 
in  mourning  ever  since.  He  hates  the  stage  now. 
He  advised  me  a  couple  of  years  ago  never  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  it.  He  says  it's  *  a  pit  of  vul- 
garity.' See  that  fellow  who  has  just  come  into 
the  box  ?  He's  shaking  hands  with  my  mother  now. 
That's  George  Wilbur;  you've  heard  of  him, 
haven't  you?  He  was  in  my  class  at  Harvard. 
He  looked  like  a  young  Greek  in  those  days,  with 
his  light  curly  hair.  But  his  moustache  spoils  his 
looks,  and  society  has  spoiled  everything  else.  He 
spends  his  time  in  getting  up  dances  and  such 
things.  He's  a  great  social  authority.  He  knows 
everybody  that's  considered  worth  knowing  in  New 
York,  and  all  about  them.  When  people  are  giving 
receptions  and  balls,  they  send  him  their  lists,  and 
he  strikes  ofif  all  the  names  that  he  thinks  ought 
not  to  be  there.    The  critics  all  seem  to  be  here," 


21 6     -^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f* 


the  dramatist  went  on,  still  peering  from  behind 
the  curtain.  "  There's  old  Woolson  of  the  Record. 
See,  that  little  man,  with  the  iron  gray  hair  and 
beard,  in  the  third  row  of  the  orchestra.  He'll 
be  sure  to  give  me  an  awful  raking.  He'll  say  the 
play  is  morbid,  and  then  he'll  write  a  long  essay 
on  the  degrading  influence  of  the  contemporary 
drama.  He's  probably  taken  the  cue  from  my  novel, 
and  he's  written  it  already.  He  believes  that  criti- 
cism should  either  eulogise  or  condemn,  and  he 
prefers  to  condemn ;  it's  easier,  and  it  gives  a  wider 
scope  for  his  magnificent  vocabulary.  And  see  — 
right  behind  him  —  that  reddish-looking  man,  — 
the  one  with  the  half-bald  head  and  red  moustache. 
That's  Godfrey,  of  the  Wasp.  He's  a  clever  fel- 
low, but  they  say  he  has  his  price.  I've  heard  it 
from  several  people  who  ought  to  know.  It's  curi- 
ous that  any  paper  should  publish  his  articles.  But 
they  have  a  kind  of  cheap  cleverness  about  them. 
That  chap  with  him,  the  long-haired  old  man,  that's 
Sydney  Carleton,  editor  of  Comics.  He's  a  queer 
example  of  the  editor  who  can't  write.  He's  lived 
among  literary  men  all  his  life  —  he's  been  intimate 
with  some  of  the  most  famous  men  of  his  day  — 
and  he's  got  a  wonderful  stock  of  reminiscences; 
but  he'll  carry  them  to  the  grave  with  him." 

"  What  a  curious  way  he  has  of  throwing  back 
his  hair  with  his  hand,"  said  Evelyn. 

Thayer  laughed.  "  He  likes  to  display  his  dia- 
mond ring.  It  was  given  him  by  a  celebrated  actress 
years  ago,  and  has  a  history,  I  believe.  He  hasn't 
an  idea  of  his  own.  All  he  knows  is  borrowed  from 
books.  He's  become  so  saturated  with  reading  that 
he's  forgotten  all  about  life.    There  are  plenty  of 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     «f»      217 

people  just  like  him.  The  woman  behind  him  is 
an  interesting  character,  —  the  one  with  the  high 
gray  hair  and  the  red  cheeks.  You  see,  she  has 
more  than  the  rosy  complexion  of  youth.  She 
hasn't  a  particle  of  literary  ability;  yet,  by  sheer 
force  of  will,  she's  made  writing  pay.  She  con- 
tributes articles  about  women  to  the  papers  and 
magazines.  She's  a  clever  talker,  though,  and 
she's  built  up  a  kind  of  salon.  She  has  a  lot  of  the 
writers  in  New  York  at  her  house.  She  told  me 
that  last  winter  she  made  seven  hundred  dollars 
out  of  the  witty  things  people  said  at  her  dinner- 
table.     I  can't  help  admiring  her  industry." 

"  Who  is  the  short-haired  woman  in  the  —  let 
me  see,  one,  two,  three  —  in  the  seventh  row  of 
the  orchestra,  on  the  left?" 

"  Oh,  that's  Mrs.  Jimmy  Bateman.  She's  a  so- 
ciety woman,  but  you'd  never  think  so  from  her 
looks.  She "  goes  in  for  literature  more  or  less, 
though  she  can't  write  herself.  So  many  people 
who  can't  write  go  in  for  literature.  I  meet  people 
all  the  time  who  refer  to  themselves  as  if  they  were 
distinguished  authors,  and  when  I  ask  about  them 
I  find  they  haven't  written  a  thing.  It's  quite 
bewildering." 

"  I  suppose  there  are  parasites  in  every  profes- 
sion," said  Evelyn,  with  a  smile.  "  There  certainly 
are  in  the  theatrical  profession.  A  great  many  peo- 
ple affect  the  society  of  actors  who  have  no  connec- 
tion with  the  stage  at  all." 

"  Can  you  see  way  over  on  the  right,  in  one  of 
the  middle  rows  of  the  orchestra,  a  short,  stout 
man,  pulling  at  his  cuffs?  " 

For  a  moment  Evelyn  did  not  answer;   then  she 


21 8      ♦      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *f» 

said,  "  Yes,  I  think  I  know  the  one  you  mean ;  a 
puflfed-out  face  and  roving  eyes." 

"  Yes.  Well,  he's  a  character.  He  ought  to  be 
put  into  a  novel.  His  name  is  F.  Percival  Stagg; 
he's  the  owner  and  editor  of  the  Literary  Empo- 
rium, the  new  weekly.  He  started  it  himself  about 
a  year  ago." 

"  He  doesn't  look  like  a  literary  man." 

"  He  isn't.  That  is  the  most  curious  part  of  it. 
He  used  to  be  a  miner,  I  think.  He  comes  origi- 
nally from  Kentucky  somewhere.  He  discovered  a 
mine  out  in  Nevada,  and  it  made  his  fortune.  They 
say  he's  worth  several  millions.  Then  he  caine  to 
New  York  to  become  literary." 

"  How  curious." 

"Yes,  isn't  it?  He  started  the  Literary  Empo- 
rium, and  he's  been  pouring  his  money  into  it  ever 
since.  He  thinks  he's  getting  it  back  in  glory.  It 
must  be  a  pretty  melancholy  glory.  He  goes  among 
the  literary  people,  but  he's  as  out  of  place  among 
them  as  I  should  be  among  a  lot  of  miners.  He 
feels  it,  too ;  but  he  doesn't  know  what  the  matter 
is.  He'd  make  a  capital  psychological  study.  See 
how  restless  he  is,  and  what  a  disagreeable  expres- 
sion there  is  on  his  face,  as  if  he  hated  everybody 
in  the  house.  I've  noticed  that  expression  when 
I've  met  him  at  partfes.  He  looks  as  if  he  wanted 
to  punch  everybody's  head." 

Evelyn  continued  to  watch  the  audience,  or, 
rather,  that  part  of  it  which  she  could  see,  for  a 
third  of  the  house  was  cut  off  from  her  view.  She 
was  looking  for  Oswald  Webb,  wondering  if  he 
were  coming,  if  he  had  yet  come.  The  time  for 
the  performance  to  begin  had  already  passed,  and 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      219 

the  orchestra  had  not  begun  to  play;  the  audience 
continued  to  rustle  in,  and  the  noise  of  banging 
seats  continued.  Just  at  that  moment,  Thayer  cried, 
in  a  tone  of  delight : 

"  Hello !  Why,  there's  Oswald  Webb.  See  that 
man  just  coming  down  the  aisle  behind  the  usher. 
He's  stopping  now  about  a  dozen  rows  from  the 
front,  —  the  tall,  big  chap." 

Evelyn  did  not  need  these  directions;  she  was 
already  noting  the  figure.  Oswald  Webb's  face, 
too,  seemed  to  have  filled  out  a  little,  to  have  lost 
its  haggard  look. 

"  He's  a  Boston  literary  man,"  Thayer  explained. 
**  I  used  to  know  him  when  I  was  in  college,  and 
a  splendid  fellow  he  was,  too.  He's  written  a  couple 
of  capital  novels,  but  they're  almost  forgotten  now, 
except  in  Boston.  They  hardly  know  his  name  in 
New  York.  I  believe  he  lost  his  wife  a  little  while 
ago.  She  was  a  queer  sort  of  woman,  and  I  guess 
she  didn't  make  life  very  easy  for  him." 

"  I  know  him,"  said  Evelyn,  half-apologetically. 

"  Why,  yes,  you  come  from  Boston,  don't  you  ? 
Isn't  he  a  fine  fellow?  I  wish  I'd  known  he  was 
in  town,"  Thayer  went  on,  regretfully,  watching 
Webb,  as  he  carefully  unfolded  his  programme  and 
scanned  the  cast.  "  I  should  have  sent  him  some 
seats  if  I'd  had  to  pay  for  them  myself.  He  was 
the  first  editor  in  Boston  to  encourage  my  budding 
literary  genius.  I  sent  him  a  story,  and  he  ran 
it  into  the  Sunday  supplement  of  his  paper,  and 
sent  me  a  fine  letter  —  I've  got  it  now  —  and  asked 
me  to  come  to  see  him.  There  was  just  a  tinge 
of  melancholy  about  him  that  made  me  wonder  a 


!220     ^     A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

good  deal.  He  wasn't  much  more  than  thirty  then, 
either." 

Several  of  the  actors  began  to  gather  on  the  stage 
and  in  the  wings.  In  the  glare  of  light,  with  their 
faces  covered  with  paint  and  powder,  and  their 
heads  enshrouded  in  thick  wigs,  they  were  grotesque 
figures.  Leonard  Thayer  looked  at  them  with  curi- 
osity. Evelyn  could  see  from  the  expression  of  his 
face  that  he  was  amused. 

Presently  the  orchestra  began  to  play.  "  I  feel 
a  kind  of  sinking,"  said  Thayer,  putting  his  hand 
to  his  heart.  "  I  wonder  if  playwrights  have  stage- 
fright." 

"  I  should  think  they  would,"  Evelyn  replied. 

"  In  a  few  moments  the  agony  will  begin,"  he 
said,  with  an  expression  of  burlesque  misery  upon 
his  face. 

"  You  aren't  very  complimentary,"  said  Evelyn, 
reproachfully. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  didn't  mean  you. 
I'm  not  afraid  of  you.  I'm  afraid  of  myself,  my 
work,  of  the  audienfce,  and  Davidson." 

"  Davidson  is  very  popular,  you  know." 

"  But  he'll  spoil  my  piece,"  said  Thayer,  with  a 
touch  of  sincerity  in  his  tone. 
^^  The  stage-manager  came  rushing  on  the  stage. 
"  How  is  everything?  All  right?  "  he  asked,  excit- 
edly, turning  here  and  there  to  make  sure  that  the 
scene  had  been  properly  set.  No  one  replied,  and 
he  disappeared  again.  In  a  few  moments  he  re- 
turned. "Are  you  all  right,  Miss  Johnson?"  Eve- 
lyn bowed,  and  walked  over  and  sat  in  the  seat  by 
the  table,  where,  on  the  rise  of  the  curtain,  she  was 
to  be  discovered  with  a  letter  in  her  hand      "  Oh 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^      221 

Thayer,  how  are  you?  Great  night!  Nervous? 
Why  aren't  you  in  front?  Can't  have  authors  on 
the  stage,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  don't  mind  me."  Thayer  laughed,  walking 
into  the  wings.     "  I'm  going  to  get  out,  anyway." 

As  she  sat  in  the  chair,  Evelyn  felt  a  tremor, 
which  speedily  developed  into  terror.  She  thought 
of  all  that  the  evening  might  mean  to  her :  the  suc- 
cess or  failure  of  her  whole  career.  But  she  must 
gather  courage;  she  must  go  on.  She  had  a  fantastic 
impulse  to  rush  out  into  the  wings,  and  to  escape 
from  the  theatre  by  the  stage-door.  But  when  the 
orchestra  ceased  playing  and  the  hush  of  expect- 
ancy followed,  her  nervousness  passed  suddenly 
away.  For  a  moment  the  chatter  was  hushed ;  then 
a  bell  rang.  The  great  curtain  rose  slowly.  Evelyn 
felt  herself  in  a  flood  of  light  confronted  by  a  mass 
of  darkness.  She  heard  a  little  applause,  that  seemed 
to  come  from  a  distance,  and  she  waited  till  it 
ceased.  Then  she  thought  that  her  power  of  speech 
had  left  her;  but,  when  she  made  an  effort,  the 
words  came  easily  enough,  and,  with  a  sudden  sense 
of  elation,  she  spoke  the  opening  lines. 


XXXI. 

The  first  scene  kept  Evelyn  on  the  stage  for 
more  than  half  the  act;  but  she  had  very  little  to 
say;  so  she  was  able  to  look  about  the  house.  The 
auditorium  was  so  dark  that  she  could  distinguish 
the  faces  of  those  only  who  sat  in  the  first  few 
rows  of  the  orchestra. 

The  first  act  was  received  quietly;  it  wa?  too 
"  literary "  to  excite  enthusiasm,  even  in  a  first- 
night  audience,  and  it  served  chiefly  as  a  preparation 
for  the  development  of  the  plot.  After  the  curtain 
fell,  the  wiseacres  in  the  lobby  shook  their  heads. 
"  Very  foolish  of  Thayer  to  go  in  for  playwriting," 
said  young  Walter  Spencer,  who  had  himself  writ- 
ten two  successful  dramas.  "  A  novelist  can't  do 
it.  Novel-writing  and  play-writing  are  utterly  dis- 
tinct." The  remark  was  overheard  by  a  young  re- 
porter of  The  Dispatch,  who  quoted  it  derisively 
the  next  day.  Unfortunately,  the  reporter  did  not 
hear  Spencer's  comment  between  the  second  and 
third  acts. 

"  Clever  of  Thayer  to  hold  himself  in  at  the  be- 
ginning and  then  to  let  himself  go  so."  It  was 
in  this  act  that  Helen  Gordon  had  her  great  scene; 
she  had  to  express  rage  and  scorn,  which  finally 
gave  way  to  tears  and  grovelling  appeals  for  mercy. 
The  situation  was  not  new,  but  Thayer  had  handled 


-^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»      223 

it  with  freshness  and  power,  and  Helen  Gordon 
played  it  strongly.  From  the  beginning  of  the 
scene,  she  seemed  inspired.  Evelyn  thought,  as  she 
watched  her  from  the  wings,  that  Thayer  would 
have  to  change  his  opinion  of  her;  to-night  Miss 
Gordon  certainly  acted  with  heart  as  well  as  with 
her  head.  She  moved  in  a  dramatic  ecstasy;  even 
after  she  left  the  stage,  she  walked  excitedly  up 
and  down  behind  the  scenes,  as  if  she  were  still 
living  her  part.  Her  comrades  paid  to  her  the  rare 
compliment  of  being  awed  into  silence  in  her  pres- 
ence; during  the  performance,  when  she  was  not 
on  the  stage,  she  scarcely  spoke. 

Evelyn  had  no  opportunity  to  assert  herself  until 
the  third,  which  was  also  the  last  act.  Her  work 
in  the  first  two  acts  called  for  quiet  treatment,  which 
interested  without  stirring  the  audience.  At  the 
opening  of  the  act,  Evelyn  stood  in  the  wings,  with 
Madge  Guernsey  beside  her.  "  We  ain't  in  it  with 
her,"  said  Madge,  nodding  to  Helen  Gordon,  who 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  stage.  Miss  Gordon  was 
acting  easily,  deliberately,  effectively,  with  a  fine 
elaboration  of  stage  business.  Now,  Evelyn 
thought,  she  was  "  all  head."  Even  Madge's  dis- 
like of  the  actress  for  the  moment  was  subdued 
into  admiration.  "  She  is  great,"  Madge  acknowl- 
edged, pensively. 

"  Yes,"  said  Evelyn,  rousing  herself,  as  the  time 
approached  for  her  cue  to  be  given.  "  She's  won- 
derful." 

"  Go  in  and  win,"  said  Madge,  patting  Evelyn 
affectionately  on  the  back.     "  Now's  your  chance." 

Evelyn  heard  the  cue,  and  the  next  moment  the 
middle-aged  adventuress  and  her  girlish  rival  stood 


224     ^     ^  Daughter  of  Thespis         *?» 

face  to  face.  For  once  in  her  career,  Helen  Gordon 
looked  her  part;  she  had  been  able  to  create  the 
illusion  of  beauty  faded  by  the  ravages  of  vicious 
life.  Their  scene  began  quietly  and  developed  to 
a  climax,  in  which  the  girl  defied  the  adventuress. 
The  power  of  Miss  Gordon's  acting  stimulated  Eve- 
lyn, made  her  feel  as  she  had  felt  that  night  in 
Yonkers  when  she  played  with  Harold  Seymour. 
After  the  outburst  of  righteous  indignation  and 
contempt,  as  she  left  her  enemy  on  the  stage,  the 
house  rang  with  applause,  Madge,  who  had  been 
joined  by  Harry  Davidson,  was  jumping  up  and 
down  on  her  toes.  "  It  was  great !  It  was  great !  " 
she  cried,  seizing  Evelyn  by  both  hands. 

Harry  Davidson  was  smiling  down  at  her. 
"  You've  made  a  hit,"  he  said.  This  was  generous, 
for  he  himself  had  not  made  a  hit;  but,  after  all, 
he  was  too  indifferent  to  care;  the  public  would 
come  to  see  him  as  usual. 

In  spite  of  her  own  success  and  Evelyn's,  Madge 
was  not  satisfied.  She  had  expected  an  offering 
from  Jimmy  Wise,  and  it  hadn't  come.  "  The  mean 
thing,"  she  said  to  Evelyn.  "  Not  a  rose !  Well, 
I'll  pay  him  back." 

"It  serves  you  right,  Madge,  for  playing  fast 
and  loose  with  him,"  said  Evelyn,  as  she  hastily 
arranged  the  collar  of  her  new  frock. 

The  last  act  was  even  stronger  than  the  second 
had  been,  and  at  Helen  Gordon's  triumphant  defeat 
at  the  close  —  her  death  scene  was  a  masterpiece 
of  realism  —  and  Evelyn's  vindication,  the  audience 
made  a  vigorous  demonstration.  As  Evelyn  had 
said,  it  was  Miss  Gordon's  night;  but  she  her- 
self, on  her  appearance  in  the  procession  of  actors 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      225 

that  filed  before  the  green  curtain,  received  spon- 
taneous applause.  Madge,  too,  was  greeted  with 
hand-clapping  and  laughter. 

On  her  dressing-room  table  Evelyn  found  a  note 
from  Oswald  Webb.  It  had  been  written  on  a  card, 
and  contained  the  request  that  he  might  see  her 
after  the  performance.  He  would  come  around 
with  his  friend  Bowers,  the  poet,  who  wanted  to 
meet  her. 

Madge  had  preceded  Evelyn,  and  was  hastening 
to  escape  from  the  theatre. 

"What's  your  hurry?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  promised  Willie  Boyd  I'd  get  ready  as 
soon  as  I  could.  He  wasn't  on  in  the  last  act,  you 
know,  and  he's  waiting  for  me." 

"  So  soon,  Madge?"  said  Evelyn,  with  a  smile. 

"  Got  to  make  a  beginning  some  time,"  Madge 
replied. 

As  Evelyn  went  out  into  the  dimly  lighted  pas- 
sageway that  led  down  into  the  wings,  she  saw 
several  groups  of  people  standing  about.  The  lar- 
gest group  consisted  of  Helen  Gordon's  friends. 
Miss  Gordon  had  not  removed  her  red  dress,  her 
red  hat  with  red  feathers,  and  she  made  a  startling 
picture  as  she  stood  there  laughing  and  talking. 
Evelyn  speedily  found  Oswald  Webb  and  his  friend 
chatting  with  Leonard  Thayer.  He  presented  Staf- 
ford Bowers,  who  at  once  plunged  into  elaborate 
eulogy. 

"  Oh,"  said  Leonard  Thayer,  pointing  his  finger 
at  her  reproachfully,  when  the  poet  had  paused  for 
breath,  "  what  a  deceiver  you  are !  You  never  told 
me. 

"  Never  told  you  what  ?  "  Evelyn  asked,  smiling. 


226     -^     A  Daughter  of  Thespis 


"Why,  that  you  and  Mr.  Webb  were  old 
friends." 

"We're  not  exactly  old  friends,"  she  laughed, 
emphasising  the  adjective. 

"  But  we're  very  good  friends,"  Webb  inter- 
posed, with  the  air  of  making  a  joke. 

"  Friendship  is  a  matter  of  temperament,  not  of 
time,"  said  Bowers,  with  a  smile. 

Webb  began  to  laugh.  "Oh,  we  have  tempera- 
ment enough.  That  is.  Miss  Johnson  has.  She's 
proven  that  to-night." 

"  You  pleased  even  me,"  said  Thayer,  jocosely, 
rising  on  his  toes. 

"Thank  you,"  she  replied,  "but  Miss  Gordon 
deserves  all  the  compliments." 

"  Dear  me !  "  exclaimed  Thayer.  "  I  shouldn't 
dare  go  near  her.     The  author  isn't  in  it." 

"  That  happens  too  often  nowadays,"  said  the 
poet,  for  the  moment  seemingly  oblivious  of  Evelyn's 
presence.  "  We  forget  that  the  actor  is  only  an 
interpreter,  and  we  don't  give  the  real  creator 
credit." 

Some  people  that  Evelyn  didn't  know  came  up  to 
speak  to  Thayer,  and  the  poet  began  to  talk  with  the 
stage-manager.  So  Evelyn  was  able  to  speak  with 
Oswald  Webb  for  a  few  moments  alone.  He  asked 
if  she  were  going  to  drive  home,  and  she  shook 
her  head. 

"  Oh,  no.  I've  not  got  to  that  yet.  I  shall  go 
home  in  a  Broadway  car." 

"But  not  alone?" 

"  Oh,  yes." 

He  looked  shocked.  "  Will  you  have  to  do  that 
every  night  ?  " 


*^         A   Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      227 

"  Yes,"  she  repHed,  with  a  cheerful  upward  inflec- 
tion. "  The  car  passes  the  theatre  door.  I  can 
change  cars  at  Twenty-third  Street  if  I  Hke.  But 
the  distance  is  so  short  I  don't  mind  it." 

"  But  it  seems  —  it  seems  dangerous  to  me  —  in 
New  York,"  he  said,  with  a  pained  look. 

"  Oh,  there's  no  danger,"  she  replied,  laughing. 

"  Well,  you'll  let  me  go  home  with  you,  anyway, 
to-night,  won't  you  ?  " 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  they  reached  the 
boarding-house.  "  I've  got  my  article  to  write  yet," 
Webb  remarked,  as  he  bade  Evelyn  good  night. 

"  Your  article  ?  Are  you  going  to  write  one 
to-night  ?    And  send  it  to  Boston  ?  "  ^ 

"  Of  course.  I  can  do  it  in  three-quarters  of 
an  hour,  and  at  half-past  one  the  printers  will  begin 
setting  it  up.  To-morrow  morning  Mrs.  Bowen 
will  read  it  at  Appleby  Terrace,  and  in  the  afternoon 
I'll  read  it  in  print  at  the  hotel  and  send  it  over 
to  you.    It  reminds  me  of  my  old  newspaper  days." 

The  next  morning  Evelyn  read  the  press  notices 
in  bed,  as  she  and  Madge  had  done  in  Cohasset. 
The  play  was  treated  very  conservatively ;  the  critics 
all  pronounced  it  too  "  literary,"  but  as  Leonard 
Thayer  had  already  made  a  name  as  a  novelist, 
they  would  probably  have  said  that  anyway.  On 
the  whole,  the  critics  agreed  that,  though  "  DecepH 
tion  "  could  not  be  regarded  as  a  "  permanent  con- 
tribution to  the  drama,"  it  was  a  very  good  first  at- 
tempt, and  the  cleverness  of  the  dialogue  would 
doubtless  give  it  a  run.  These  judgments  annoyed 
and  disappointed  Evelyn;  from  its  reception  by 
the  audience  she  had  supposed  that  the  piece  was 
an  unqualified  success;    she  had  been  too  hopeful 


228     ^     A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *f» 


to  realise  that  nearly  all  plays  produced  in  New 
York  were  received  vociferously  by  the  friends  of 
the  author  at  the  first  performance. 

As  for  the  criticism  of  the  acting,  Helen  Gordon 
naturally  came  in  for  the  first  mention.  The  Record 
fairly  deluged  her  with  enthusiastic  rhetoric.  The 
Dispatch  wanted  to  know  why  she  had  not  been 
seen  in  New  York  before.  After  Miss  Gordon's, 
the  notices  of  Evelyn's  work  were  the  most  favour- 
able; though  the  Dispatch  thought  she  developed 
too  strongly  the  sentimental  qualities  of  Mathilde, 
several  of  the  critics  extolled  the  refinement  and 
restraint  of  her  style,  and  the  sincerity  of  her  pathos. 

Nevertheless,  after  reading  the  papers,  Evelyn 
felt  depressed;  she  had  been  convinced  that  the 
piece  would  run  all  winter;  now  it  seemed  possible 
that  after  a  few  weeks  the  audience  would  fall  ofif 
and  the  play  would  be  withdrawn.  The  next  day, 
however,  at  the  eleven  o'clock  rehearsal,  which  had 
been  called  with  a  view  to  pruning  the  scenes  that 
had  dragged,  Evelyn  found  author,  actors,  and  man- 
agers in  good  spirits.  They  agreed  that  the  play 
had  been  "  let  down  easy."  "  I  was  afraid  they 
were  going  to  knife  me,"  Leonard  Thayer  said  to 
Evelyn,  and  "  I  tell  you,"  she  heard  Saunderson  ex- 
claim to  a  strange  man  standing  on  the  stage, 
"  we've  got  a  money-maker  in  this  piece." 

Helen  Gordon  was  exultant.  "  Won't  Jackson 
be  mad  when  he  reads  those  notices?"  she  whis- 
pered as  she  stood  with  Evelyn  in  the  wings. 
"  He'll  realise  what  he's  lost.  He  used  to  guy  me 
for  wanting  to  be  an  actress.  I  wonder  what  he'll 
think  of  it  now?  Judge  Cowdrey  was  in  front  last 
night,  and  I  got  the  loveliest  note  from  him  this 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»     229 

morning.  He  said  there  wasn't  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt  about  the  decree,  and  perhaps  I  should  get 
it  in  a  couple  of  weeks,  in  a  month  at  the  most." 

Madge,  too,  was  elated.  "  I've  sent  every  one 
of  my  notices  to  Jimmy,"  she  confided  to  Evelyn. 
"  I  guess  he'll  be  sorry  he  let  that  old  business  of 
his  keep  him  from  coming  on." 

The  pruning-knife  of  the  stage-manager  spared 
Madge,  but  it  did  not  spare  either  Evelyn  or  Miss 
Gordon.  The  scene  between  the  two  women  in  the 
last  act  was  shortened,  and  some  of  Evelyn's 
speeches  in  her  first  act  were  cut.  Evelyn  was 
vexed,  but  not  nearly  so  resentful  as  Miss  Gk)rdon, 
who  by  a  subtle  process  detected  jealousy  on  the 
part  of  Saunderson.  "  He  wants  to  keep  me  down," 
she  said  to  Evelyn,  with  tears  of  anger  in  her  eyes. 
"  He's  afraid  I'll  strike  for  a  higher  salary,  I  sup- 
pose," 

In  the  afternoon  Oswald  Webb  called  on  Evelyn. 
He  appeared  to  be  unusually  cheerful.  "  New  York 
intoxicates  me,"  he  said.  "  I  feel  as  if  there  were 
champagne  in  the  air.     I  should  like  to  live  here." 

"  Would  you  really  like  it  better  than  Boston  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  thousand  times.  I  don't  think  I've  ever 
been  in  sympathy  with  Boston.  It  may  seem  strange 
for  me  to  say  that.  But  I  have  a  theory  that  no 
one  can  be  a  real  Bostonian  —  that  is,  can  feel  that 
he  belongs  to  Boston  —  unless  he  was  born  there 
and  lived  there  all  his  life.  Bostonians  never  think 
so  well  of  people  from  other  cities  as  they  do  of 
themselves.  I've  always  felt  that  they  regarded  me 
as  an  alien." 

Evelyn  made  no  reply,  and  Webb  went  on :  "I 
must  confess  that  I  don't  like  the  self-conscious 


230     *^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

excellence  of  Boston,  and  as  for  Cambridge,  the 
atmosphere  there  is  stifling  to  me.  Perhaps  that's 
because  I'm  not  a  Harvard  man  myself;  perhaps 
it's  because  I've  had  to  endure  the  patronage  of  so 
many  Harvard  men  in  Boston,"  he  concluded,  with 
a  whimsical  smile. 

For  a  long  time  they  discussed  Leonard  Thayer's 
play.  Webb  was  amused  by  Evelyn's  account  of 
Thayer's  behaviour  at  the  rehearsals.  "  He  always 
was  an  impatient  fellow,"  he  said.  "  But  he'll  get 
over  that  after  he's  married." 

As  he  rose  to  leave,  Evelyn  said :  "  You  haven't 
shown  me  your  novel.    Are  you  going  on  with  it?  " 

She  thought  she  saw  him  flush  faintly. 

"  I  haven't  done  a  thing  with  it  since  I  wrote 
you,"  he  replied,  "  I've  been  very  busy  —  and  then 
I  suddenly  lost  interest  —  and  energy.  It  seemed 
dull  to  me  —  mechanical." 

"  But  do  you  think  a  writer  can  ever  judge  his 
own  work?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  thoughtfully,  "I 
used  to  think  I  could  judge  mine,  but  now  I  seem 
to  have  lost  my  old  point  of  view  and  my  new  one 
doesn't  satisfy  me.  I've  lost  confidence  in  myself. 
But  perhaps,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  "  if  you  keep 
prodding  me,  it  will  come  back." 


XXXIL 

In  his  column  review,  Oswald  Webb  predicted 
that  the  piece  would  run  in  New  York  throughout 
the  season,  and  would  exert  a  wholesome  influence 
on  the  drama;  it  proved  conclusively  that  literary 
men  could  write  plays,  and  it  was  to  be  hoped  that 
other  American  novelists,  even  if  they  were  not 
romantic  novelists,  would  profit  by  Thayer's  ex- 
ample and  turn  their  attention  to  the  theatre,  which 
they  had  too  long  neglected.  To  Evelyn  the  article 
seemed  in  style  and  in  analysis  far  superior  to  any 
of  the  criticisms  that  had  appeared  in  the  New  York 
papers.  Webb's  sympathetic  study  of  Thayer's 
methods,  his  eulogy  of  Miss  Gordon  —  he  gave 
Evelyn  a  half-dozen  lines  of  commendation  for  her 
naturalness  and  restraint  —  and  his  summing  up  of 
the  whole  performance  was  so  skilfully  done  that 
she  could  hardly  believe  that  the  article  had  been 
written  under  pressure. 

The  piece,  however,  failed  to  win  immediate  suc- 
cess. For  the  first  few  nights  the  audiences  were 
large;  then,  when  a  period  of  hot  September  weather 
followed,  they  fell  off.  But  early  in  October  they 
increased  in  size,  though  on  no  evening  for  the  next 
few  weeks  could  the  theatre  have  been  said  to  be 
crowded.  Saunderson,  however,  seemed  to  be  sat- 
isfied with  the  receipts.  At  first  it  was  reported  that 
after  three  weeks  the  play  would  be  taken  off,  and 

331 


232      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis 


there  was  consternation  among  the  actors,  who 
feared  that  just  at  the  beginning  of  the  season 
they  would  be  thrown  out  of  employment.  Then 
a  rumour  spread  that  the  management  intended  to 
force  the  run  to  four  or  five  months,  and  with  the 
prestige  thus  acquired  to  send  the  company  on  the 
road.  But  several  of  the  critics  in  their  weekly 
reviews  expressed  doubts  as  to  the  chance  of  such 
a  play  as  "  Deception  "  winning  favour  in  any  city 
outside  New  York,  with  the  exception  of  Boston; 
it  was  just  the  kind  of  play  Boston  would  like.  It 
may  have  been  these  comments  that  inspired  Helen 
Gordon  with  the  belief,  which  she  communicated  to 
Evelyn,  that  as  soon  as  the  piece  was  withdrawn  in 
New  York  it  would  be  taken  to  Boston  for  a  run. 

One  afternoon,  as  Evelyn  was  about  to  ascend 
the  steps  of  the  boarding-house  in  Twenty-third 
Street,  she  observed  Leonard  Thayer  hesitating  on 
the  sidewalk.  There  was  a  puzzled  look  on  his 
face  which  disappeared  when  she  bowed  to  him. 
He  ran  laughing  up  the  steps. 

"  I  thought  it  was  you,"  he  said,  offering  his 
hand,  "  but  I  wasn't  sure.  I  knew  you  lived  some- 
where along  here,  but  I  had  forgotten  the  number. 
May  I  come  in?  " 

As  they  entered  the  house,  Evelyn  tried  to  think 
of  something  to  say,  but  she  was  unable  to  evolve 
a  thought.  Leonard  Thayer  seemed  to  be  in  the 
same  predicament.  At  last,  with  an  evident  effort, 
he  remarked : 

"  It's  very  pleasant  round  here." 

She  looked  into  his  face  and  they  both  laughed. 
After  that  they  felt  more  at  ease. 

"  Do  you  think  so?  "  she  said.    "  Why,  I  think 


«i^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     ^      i^^ 

it's  hideous.  And  then  it  is  so  noisy.  The  cable- 
cars  are  passing  all  the  time." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  should  think  it  would  be  noisy.  But 
it's  central  and  it's  near  Madison  Square,  and  Mad- 
ison Square  is  the  most  beautiful  spot  in  the  world 
to  me." 

"  That's  because  you've  always  lived  here,"  she 
said. 

"  Don't  you  like  New  York?  "  he  asked,  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  I  used  to  dislike  it  very  much,"  she  replied, 
evasively. 

"  That  means  you  like  it  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  hardly  so  strong  as  that.  I  dislike  it 
less,  that's  all." 

"  When  you've  been  here  a  few  years  you'll  think 
there's  no  place  in  the  world  to  compare  with  it. 
After  a  few  more  Metropolitan  successes,"  he  insin- 
uated. 

"  More?  "  she  replied. 

"  Why,  yes,  more,"  he  went  on,  briskly.  "  You 
certainly  have  made  one  great  success.  You've 
saved  my  piece." 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  "  Evelyn  protested.  "  Miss  Gor- 
don!" 

"Miss  Gordon,  of  course;  but  she's  a  show  all 
by  herself.  I  can't  convince  myself  that  I've  evolved 
the  character  that  she  plays.  She's  made  it  some- 
thing else,  something  rare  and  wonderful,  some- 
thing I  hadn't  intended  it  to  be."  As  Evelyn  made 
no  comment,  he  went  on,  "  But  you've  told  peo- 
ple what  I  was  driving  at.  If  you  weren't  in  the 
play,  there  wouldn't  be  anything  of  mine  in  it  at 
all.     You  know  Davidson  has  ruined  Oglethorpe, 


234     ♦      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         -^ 

and  there  are  only  three  characters  of  any  impor- 
tance in  the  piece." 

"Ah,  but  Miss  Gordon  is  very  good.  She  has 
made  the  hit,"  said  Evelyn,  more  to  keep  talking 
than  to  do  justice  to  her  comrade. 

"  I  dare  say  she  has  made  the  hit,"  Thayer  re- 
plied, with  a  half-contemptuous  laugh.  "  It  may  be 
that  I  don't  appreciate  her;  but  you  have  worked 
out  my  ideas.  If  another  Helen  Gordon  had  your 
part  I  shouldn't  recognise  my  play.  You  know 
Saunderson  cut  it  frightfully.  They're  always 
changing  things,  these  managers." 

"  But  you  liked  her  at  rehearsals,"  Evelyn  in- 
sisted, ignoring  the  last  part  of  his  remarks,  and 
secretly  pleased  at  the  chance  of  paying  him  back 
for  his  severity  before  the  first  night,  though  now 
she  was  glad  that  he  had  been  so  strict  with  her. 
"  She  was  the  only  one  you  did  like." 

"I  admired  her,"  he  corrected,  politely.  Then 
he  went  on :  "  Yes,  I  suppose  I  liked  her,  too ;  she 
certainly  had  no  technical  faults.  There  was  noth- 
ing for  me  to  criticise.  She  looked  at  Mrs.  Gwynne, 
it  seemed  to  me,  from  a  woman's  point  of  view. 
She  didn't  soften  her  in  the  least." 

"  Do  you  mean  she  looked  at  her  as  women  look 
at  the  faults  of  other  women  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid  I  do,"  he  acknowledged.  "Miss 
Gordon  acts  as  if  she  felt  no  pity  for  the  character. 
She  makes  her  as  hard  —  well,  as  she  knows  how 
to  make  her,"  he  concluded,  grimly. 

"And  do  you  think  all  women  are  like  that?" 
Evelyn  asked,  with  a  smile.  "  I  mean  toward  each 
other's  faults?" 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^     235 

"  No,  I  don't,"  he  repHed,  promptly,  perceiving 
the  drift  of  her  question  and  realising  the  danger. 

"  But  I  thought  you  just  said  you  did,"  Evelyn 
cried,  showing,  as  many  a  woman  does,  unusual 
courage  and  aggressiveness  in  the  defence  of  her 
sex. 

"  Perhaps  I  did  generalise  too  much.  I  usually 
do,"  he  said.  "  I  didn't  expect  you  to  pick  my 
remark  to  pieces." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  pick  it  to  pieces,  either;  but 
I've  heard  people  talk  just  like  that  before,"  Evelyn 
retorted,  softening  her  remarks  with  a  smile. 

"  Literary  men  are  always  generalising,"  he  said, 
deprecatingly.    "  You  mustn't  take  us  too  seriously." 

"  Miss  Gordon  isn't  a  fair  example  of  women," 
said  Evelyn. 

"  Oh,  please  don't  go  on  with  that,"  he  said,  with 
assumed  ruefulness.  "  I've  confessed  that  I'm 
wrong.    I'm  afraid  you  are  trying  to  pay  me  back." 

"  Pay  you  back  ?    For  what  ?  " 

"  Why  —  for  being  so  —  so  rude  to  you." 

"  This  afternoon,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  No.  This  afternoon  ?  Have  I  been  rude  this 
afternoon  ?  I  meant  to  be  utterly  impersonal.  You 
don't  take  what  I  said  seriously,  do  you  ?  " 

She  laughed  softly  into  the  handkerchief  that 
she  had  been  holding  in  her  hand.  She  was  sur- 
prised at  the  novelist's  lack  of  perspicacity. 

"  I  am  afraid  there  are  some  things  about  women 
that  you  don't  know,"  she  said. 

"  Then  you  must  teach  me.  You  do  know  what 
I  really  meant,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course.     You   meant  that  vou   were  rude 


i^S     ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *9» 

to  me  at  the  rehearsals,  when  you  made  me  cry," 
she  repUed,  mercilessly. 

"  Cry  ?  Did  I  make  you  cry  ?  "  he  said,  with  con- 
sternation in  his  face. 

She  bowed  very  seriously,  still  holding  the  hand- 
kerchief over  her  mouth. 

"  What  a  brute  you  must  think  I  am !  "  he  said, 
leaning  over  toward  her  with  his  gloves  in  his 
clasped  hands. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  didn't.  Madge  did,  though  —  Miss 
Guernsey." 

"  And  did  I  make  her  cry,  too  ?  " 

"  No,  you  didn't.  It  isn't  so  easy  to  make  Madge 
cry.    But  you  —  you  exasperated  her." 

"And  I  made  you  cry,"  he  repeated,  absently, 
apparently  not  having  heard  her  last  remark.  He 
took  it  so  seriously  that  she  was  sorry  she  had  said 
anything  about  it. 

"  It  was  nothing,"  she  said,  trying  to  assume  a 
light  manner.  "  I  was  very  nervous,  I  was  afraid  of 
failing,  that  was  all."  Her  advantage  was  slipping 
away  from  her. 

"  And  I  made  it  all  the  harder  for  you.  Well  — 
well!" 

He  sat  for  a  long  time  bending  forward  and 
clasping  his  gloves  in  silence.  At  last  he  raised  his 
eyes  to  her  face  without  moving  his  head  and  said : 

"  I  suppose  you'll  never  forgive  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  shall,"  she  replied,  with  relief  at  the 
breaking  of  the  spell. 

"  Do  they  all  hate  me?  "  he  said,  with  a  little  smile, 
"  all  the  company  ?  " 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  the  truth  ?  " 


«fi»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      ly-j 

"  Of  course.  I  can't  imagine  your  doing  any- 
thing else." 

"  Would  it  make  any  difference  to  you  if  they 
did  hate  you  ?  " 

He  appeared  to  ponder  the  matter  deeply,  as  if 
it  were  of  great  importance.  "  Why,  yes,"  he  re- 
plied at  last.  "  I  don't  want  any  one  to  hate  me. 
Don't  you  think  that  every  one  wants  to  be  liked? 
Some  people  pretend  they  don't,  but  they  really 
do." 

"  And  does  it  make  any  difference  to  you  whether 
actors  like  or  dislike  you  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"Why  do  you  say  it  in  that  way?"  he  said, 
lifting  his  head  quickly.  "  Actors  ?  Why  not  actors 
as  well  as  any  other  people?  " 

"  Because  you  have  a  contempt  for  actors.  You 
regard  us  as  a  kind  —  well,  as  queer  people." 

"  Oh,  no,  no ! "  he  cried,  laughing  and  flushing. 
"  I'm  sure  you  aren't  fair  to  me.  Why  do  you 
think  so?" 

"  Why,  you  showed  it  at  rehearsals.  By  the  way 
you  treated  us.    We  all  felt  it." 

"  And  did  they  —  did  the  others  say  so  ?  " 

"  No,  they  didn't ;  but  they  felt  it  just  the  same." 

He  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands  with  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  and  didn't  speak  for  several  moments. 
Then  he  said,  looking  up  again,  "  You  are  quite 
right,  I  do  —  or,  rather,  I  did  —  regard  them  as 
—  as  queer.  But  you've  given  me  a  new  point 
of  view,"  he  went  on.  "  Now,  you  don't  seem  to 
me  in  the  least  queer." 

"  Oh,  I'm  only  commonplace."  She  smiled,  to 
hide  her  embarrassment.  She  was  afraid  he  was 
going  to  compliment  her  again,  but  he  only  said : 


238      ♦      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «*► 

"  I  suppose  we're  all  narrow.  We  live  in  our 
little  worlds  and  every  one  of  us  thinks  that  his 
little  world  is  the  whole  world,  and  if  anything 
happens  to  be  outside,  why,  it  doesn't  count.  I  used 
to  imagine  that  the  world  of  literature  was  the 
broadest  and  freest  of  all,  but  now  I  see  that  it 
is  about  as  narrow  as  the  rest  of  them.  It  has  its 
little  regulations  and  its  prejudices  and  its  conceits. 
Oh,  yes,  plenty  of  conceits." 

"  There  aren't  many  Shakespeares,"  said  Evelyn, 
vaguely  wondering  whether  her  remark  was  silly 
or  clever. 

"  No,  Shakespeare's  world  was  broad  enough. 
But  it's  something  to  realise  that  your  own  is  nar- 
row." 

Then  they  talked  of  many  things,  most  of  them 
connected  with  the  theatre.  His  knowledge  of  actors 
surprised  her.  Though  he  knew  few  of  them  per- 
sonally, he  seemed  to  be  familiar  with  the  histories 
of  all  the  important  players;  he  even  knew  about 
minor  members  of  the  profession  whose  work  had 
attracted  his  attention.  There  were  no  more  awk- 
ward pauses  in  the  conversation.  When  finally  he 
rose  from  his  seat  and  offered  his  hand,  she  said, 
"  Must  you  go  ?  " 

"Yes.  I've  made  a  long  call  already.  But  I 
like  to  talk  about  the  theatre.  Besides,  you've  done 
me  good.  You  must  help  me  to  be  broader  and 
more  just  to  women  —  and  to  actors." 

She  went  out  into  the  hall  with  him.  The  house 
reeked  with  stale  odours,  and  seemed  to  be  darker 
and  dingier  than  ever.  She  felt  as  if  she  ought 
to  apologise  for  it,  but  she  resisted  the  temptation. 
He,  however,  must  have  divined  her  feeling,  for  to 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^      239 

break  the  momentary  embarrassment  between  them, 
he  said : 

"  What  a  quaint  old  place  this  is !  " 
Evelyn  laughed.  "  It's  certainly  old  enough." 
"  I  should  like  to  live  in  such  a  place  for  awhile. 
We  live  up-town,  in  Madison  Avenue,  among  the 
strait-laced  people.  I'm  just  enough  of  a  Bo- 
hemian to  appreciate  the  pleasures  of  not  being  gen- 
teel. I  once  wanted  to  take  some  rooms  down- 
town, way  over  on  the  East  Side,  just  after  I  left 
college  and  began  writing.  I  wanted  to  live  there 
for  awhile  and  see  '  the  other  half.'  But  the  Mater 
objected  so  much  that  I  gave  up  the  scheme.  So  I 
just  prowl  around  now." 

"Were  you  prowling  when  you  passed  here?" 
Evelyn  asked. 

"  Well,  yes,  in  a  sort  of  a  way.  I  was  going 
down  to  a  little  shop  in  Twenty-third  Street,  where 
they  sell  old  prints  and  old  photographs  of  actors. 
Some  of  them  are  great  finds.  I  keep  a  collection 
of  theatrical  celebrities.  They  promised  to  hunt 
up  an  engraving  of  Mrs.  Siddons  as  the  Tragic  Muse 
for  me.  You've  seen  that,  haven't  you?  They 
said  they  might  have  it  to-day.  Do  you  know  the 
place?" 

"  No,"  Evelyn  replied.    "  I  don't  go  about  much." 

"  Well,   I'll   take  you   there   sometime  if  you'll 

come,"   he  said,   eagerly.     "  It's  very   interesting. 

And  I'll  take  you  to  some  of  the  old  book-shops 

in  Fourth  Avenue,  too." 


XXXIII. 

The  embarrassment  that  Evelyn  felt  during- 
Leonard  Thayer's  call  made  her  discontented  and 
restless  at  the  boarding-house.  But  for  the  present 
at  least  she  decided  to  content  herself  in  her  humble 
quarters.  After  the  third  week  of  "  Deception," 
however,  she  heard  definitely  that  the  piece  would 
be  kept  on  till  February,  and  even  later  if  the  busi- 
ness continued  to  be  satisfactory.  It  was  the  in- 
tention of  the  management  to  force  the  run  in  New 
York  so  that  the  play  might  take  the  road  with  the 
prestige  of  a  great  metropolitan  success.  This,  it 
was  thought,  would  more  than  compensate  for  the 
expense  of  the  New  York  theatre,  where  Saunderson 
had  to  share  sixty  per  cent,  of  the  receipts  with  the 
proprietors  instead  of  the  usual  forty  per  cent,  for 
theatres  out  of  New  York.  The  new  plans  gave 
Evelyn  a  reason  in  favour  of  moving,  and  it  was 
strengthened,  moreover,  by  an  announcement  made 
to  Evelyn  by  Madge  Guernsey,  that  Belle  Living- 
stone wished  to  let  the  flat  in  Seventy-first  Street 
which  she  and  her  mother  were  occupying;  Belle 
Livingstone  was  just  about  to  go  on  the  road,  and 
her  mother  was  to  spend  the  winter  with  friends 
in  South  Carolina;  they  had  been  unable  to  lease 
the  place,  and  they  felt  so  desperate  about  it  that 
they  would  rent  it  by  the  month  if  they  could.  They 
had  urged  Madge  to  take  it,  and  Madge  urged 

240 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»      241 

Evelyn  to  keep  house  there  with  her;  it  would  be 
awfully  cheap,  and  the  flat  was  just  as  pretty  as  it 
could  be;  Belle  Livingstone  might  not  be  a  great 
actress,  but  she  certainly  did  have  taste.  They  could 
keep  the  old  coloured  mammy  that  the  Livingstones 
had ;   Mrs.  Livingstone  said  she  was  a  jewel.  ^ 

Evelyn  called  at  the  apartment  with  Madge  and 
met  the  girl  who  had  been  her  rival  for  the  part 
of  Mathilde.  Belle  Livingstone  had  large,  liquid 
black  eyes  and  jet  black  hair,  with  touches  of  gray 
in  it.  As  she  eyed  Evelyn  there  was  an  almost 
bitter  look  in  her  face.  She  had  to  swallow  her  pride 
to  urge  the  girl  who  had  secured  the  part  she  had 
set  her  heart  on  playing  to  take  the  little  home  she 
had  made  by  hard  work  for  herself  and  her  mother; 
all  this  Evelyn  realised  with  a  feeling  of  pity  that 
she  knew  Belle  Livingstone,  if  she  had  suspected  it, 
would  have  bitterly  resented.  Mrs.  Livingstone 
was  a  little,  old-fashioned  woman  with  white  hair 
and  a  pathetic  smile  that  revealed  small,  even  teeth. 
She  took  no  pains  to  conceal  the  anxiety  she  felt 
to  let  the  flat;  her  daughter  was  more  reserved, 
but  quite  as  eager. 

"  You  see,  we've  got  some  of  our  furniture,"  said 
the  old  lady.  "  I  left  it  at  my  brother's  house  in 
Charleston  when  we  broke  up  after  Belle's  father 
died.  And  then  last  spring,  when  we  decided  to 
take  this  place,  I  sent  for  some  of  it." 

"  It's  very  pretty,"  said  Evelyn,  looking  around. 

There  was  a  large  parlour  leading  into  a  dining- 
room.  Behind  these  were  two  small  bedrooms,  the 
kitchen,  and  the  servant's  room.  Next  to  the  par- 
lour, in  front  of  the  house,  was  another  bedroom, 


242     ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *f» 


which  Madge  declared  she  intended  to  take  for 
herself. 

"  It's  just  my  size,"  she  said,  as  they  looked  into 
it.  "  You  can  have  the  nice  one  next  to  the  dining- 
room,  Evelyn,  and  we'll  save  the  other  for  a  guest. 
When  mother  comes  on  to  see  me,  we'll  put  her  in 
there." 

All  of  the  rooms  were  tastefully  furnished  with 
pieces  of  furniture  that  suggested  departed  wealth. 
Belle  Livingstone's  father  had  been  one  of  the  many 
Southerners  ruined  by  the  war.  The  girl  had  been 
brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  shabby  gentility,  and 
after  her  father's  death,  when  she  was  about  twenty- 
two,  she  had  chosen  to  go  on  the  stage.  Since  that 
time  she  had  dragged  wearily  in  second-class  com- 
panies from  one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other. 
She  had  a  certain  talent,  but  she  was  too  large, 
too  statuesque  for  ordinary  purposes;  Evelyn  saw 
at  once  that  the  part  of  Mathilde  would  have  been 
unsuited  to  her. 

"  We  were  crazy  to  take  this  flat,"  she  said,  when 
she  and  her  mother  had  shown  their  callers  all  the 
rooms.  "  It's  on  our  hands  till  next  October,  unless 
we  sublet  it." 

"  What  made  you  do  it?  "  asked  Madge. 

"  Oh,  I'd  set  my  heart  on  a  New  York  engage- 
ment," she  replied,  with  a  despairing  carelessness. 
"  And  I  made  up  my  mind  just  to  settle  down  here 
for  the  summer  and  get  it.  I  thought  it  would  be 
a  kind  of  incentive  if  I  took  the  flat;  I'd  have  to 
get  it  then.  I  thought  I  was  going  to  do  the  part 
you've  got,  Miss  Johnson,"  she  added,  with  a  melan- 
choly laugh,  turning  to  Evelyn.  "I  suppose  we 
couldn't  both  have  it.    But  now  that  you've  got  it, 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^      243 

I  hope  you'll  take  the  flat,"  she  concluded,  trying 
to  veil  her  anxiety  under  a  feeble  show  of  humour. 

"  I  like  it  very  much,"  Evelyn  replied. 

"  When  do  you  go  out.  Belle?  "  Madge  asked. 

"  Next  week.  We  open  in  Albany.  The  road 
again !  " 

Madge  relieved  the  tension  by  saying,  "  It  is 
beastly,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  I  do  wish  you'd  take  the  flat,"  said  Belle. 

"  We'll  make  the  price  very  low,"  added  her 
mother. 

Pity  for  her  defeated  rival  persuaded  Evelyn.  "  I 
think  we'd  better  decide  to  take  it,  Madge,"  she 
declared,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"All  right,"  cried  Madge.  "Then  it's  a  bar- 
gain." 

"  Now  we  must  speak  of  terms,"  said  the  old 
lady,  with  a  display  of  her  white  teeth. 

"  We  ought  to  pay  you  at  least  what  you're  paying 
now,"  said  Evelyn,  promptly.  And  when  she  saw 
Madge's  face  drop,  she  went  on,  "  Of  course,  when 
you  hire  a  flat  by  the  year,  you  get  it  cheaper  than 
when  you  hire  it  by  the  month." 

"  Exactly,"  Mr§.  Livingstone  agreed,  with  a  long 
sigh.  She  could  hardly  credit  the  good  fortune 
Evelyn's  first  speech  had  promised,  and  she  had 
held  her  breath  for  fear  that  the  second  remark 
would  contain  some  shattering  condition.  She 
looked  nervously  at  her  daughter,  apparently  fear- 
ing the  girl  was  going  to  destroy  the  prospect. 

"  We  had  intended  to  offer  you  the  flat  for  less," 
said  Miss  Livingstone,  with  the  air  of  resisting 
a  temptation  not  to  speak. 

A  shadow  fell  upon  her  mother's  face,  and  the 


244    ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *f> 

old  lady  turned  appealingly  to  Evelyn.  The  ex- 
pression in  Madge's  eyes  said  plainly  to  Evelyn, 
"  Oh,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  such  a  goose !  " 

"  I'm  sure  that,  what  you  are  now  paying  would 
be  satisfactory  to  me,"  said  Evelyn,  who  already 
knew  the  amount.    "  Wouldn't  it  to  you,  Madge?  " 

"  Ye-es,"  said  Madge,  with  an  inflection  free  from 
enthusiasm. 

"  And  then  we  ought  to  pay  for  the  furniture," 
Evelyn  went  on. 

"  No,"  said  Belle  Livingstone,  firmly.  "  As  long 
as  you  are  going  to  pay  full  rent,  we'll  let  you  have 
the  use  of  the  furniture." 

"  When  will  you  want  to  come  in  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Livingstone.    "  We  go  away  on  Saturday." 

"  I  shall  have  to  give  at  least  a  week's  notice  at 
my  boarding-house,"  Evelyn  replied. 

The  details  of  the  arrangement  were  quickly  con- 
sidered. Mrs.  Livingstone  showed  her  appreciation 
of  Evelyn's  generosity  by  offering  to  leave  in  the 
flat  the  necessary  housekeeping  things,  including 
even  her  china  and  table-linen,  of  which  she  seemed 
to  be  proud.  "  I  know  I  can  trust  you,"  she  said, 
with  a  smile  at  Evelyn,  and  as  they  were  leaving 
Belle  Livingstone  said,  quietly,  "  I'm  glad  you  got 
the  part." 

When  they  arrived  at  the  flat  they  found  nearly 
everything  that  they  had  noticed  during  their  first 
visit ;  yet  the  soul  of  the  place  seemed  gone.  Evelyn 
quickly  perceived  that  this  effect  was  due  to  the 
removal  of  such  little  personal  articles  as  photo- 
graphs and  ornamental  trinkets,  which  had  given 
the  place  a  look  of  home,  and  to  the  rigid  regularity 
in  the  arrangement  of  the  furniture.    The  Living- 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^     245 

stones  had  shown  perfect  taste  in  their  disposal  of 
their  property  before  their  departure;  everything 
that  was  distinctly  personal  had  disappeared.  Eve- 
lyn and  Madge  set  to  work  at  once  to  infuse  a  new 
soul  into  the  place,  and  in  a  few  hours  they  had  made 
the  apartment  their  own.  When  their  work  was 
done  they  sat  down  in  the  parlour,  looked  into  each 
other's  faces  and  sighed  with  content.  This  was 
Evelyn's  first  real  home,  and  she  was  prepared  to 
enjoy  it. 

Madge  gazed  alx>ut  rapturously.  "  How  nice 
and  pretty  everything  is." 

"  And  to  think  that  we've  earned  it  all,  Madge!  " 
said  Evelyn. 

They  quickly  settled  down  to  their  life  in  Seventy- 
first  Street,  and  they  soon  felt  as  if  they  had  been 
keeping  house  together  for  years.  To  Evelyn,  after 
her  travelling,  her  lonely  days  in  dismal  hotels, 
it  seemed  almost  an  ideal  existence;  when  Madge 
sometimes  complained  of  the  monotony,  she  replied 
that  it  was  just  what  she  liked ;  it  was  so  delightful 
after  the  irregularity,  the  fever  of  her  life  on  the 
road.  The  Livingstones  had  left  their  library,  and 
Evelyn  found  it  stocked  with  the  best  of  the  modem 
writers;  she  read  chiefly  fiction,  and  occasionally 
she  dipped  into  biographies  and  collections  of  essays 
that  she  found  there;  she  made  her  first  acquaint- 
ance with  Balzac  and  Miss  Austen.  Belle  Living- 
stone had  collected  a  number  of  books  on  the  drama 
and  on  actors,  and  these  Evelyn  read  eagerly;  but 
they  did  not  give  her  what  she  was  always  seeking, 
the  justification  of  the  dramatic  art.  She  had  read 
all  the  eulogies  of  it  she  could  find,  and  she  had 
agreed   with   most   of   the   sentiments   these   con- 


246     ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis 


tained;  but  they  did  not  satisfy  her,  they  did  not 
remove  the  feeling  that  chafed  her,  that  there  was 
something  inherently  unworthy  in  the  work  of  an 
actor.  It  was  degrading  to  give  up  one's  identity, 
to  use  the  body  for  the  personification  of  a  char- 
acter not  one's  own,  to  defile  it  with  paint,  to  dis- 
guise it  in  fantastic  dress.  Perhaps  it  was  a  weak- 
ness, perhaps  it  was  foolish  for  her  to  feel  so; 
Madge  certainly  did  not;  she  would  not  dare  ever 
to  mention  to  Madge  her  scruples;  Madge  would 
only  laugh.  Evelyn  knew  that  her  feelings  on  the 
subject  were  contradictory;  surely  the  actor's  art 
was  a  fine  art  when  practised  by  the  great  players. 
Why,  then,  should  it  be  ignoble  when  practised  by 
any  of  the  smooth-faced  familiar  gentlemen  of  whom 
she  had  a  secret  horror,  the  men  she  met  in  the 
wings  at  night,  hideous  in  the  glare  of  electric 
light,  more  hideous  at  matinees  in  the  glare  of  the 
day?  Once  in  a  letter  to  Oswald  Webb  —  he  had 
sent  her  a  copy  of  a  famous  actor's  "  Autobiog- 
raphy," which  she  had  read  before  thanking  him 
for  it  —  she  spoke  of  this  feeling.  He  replied  at 
once  that  he  had  a  firm  faith  in  the  stage;  he  be- 
lieved that  acting  was  worthy  of  ranking  with  the 
creative  arts.  She  replied  that  in  her  opinion  the 
actor  was  in  no  sense  a  creator ;  he  merely  developed 
ideas ;  he  was  the  artisan  that  worked  out  the  sug- 
gestions of^  the  artist.  This  led  to  another  letter 
from  him,  in  which  he  advanced  arguments  of  his 
own  and  quoted  arguments  from  others,  and  brought 
up  such  a  long  list  of  authorities  on  his  side  that 
she  felt  appalled,  and,  though  unconvinced,  she 
dropped  the  discussion.  She  knew  the  futility  of 
arguing  against  a  feeling. 


<(►         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»     247 

She  continued  to  hear  occasionally  from  Oswald 
Webb.  Now  and  then  he  would  send  her  books 
which  he  had  been  reviewing,  and  which  he  thought 
would  interest  her;  with  these  he  sometimes  sent 
his  reviews,  and  she  was  interested  to  compare  his 
judgments  with  her  own.  His  scope  on  the  paper, 
he  told  her,  had  widened  considerably;  in  addition 
*  to  his  reviewing  and  dramatic  work,  he  wrote  edi- 
torials occasionally,  chiefly  on  literary  topics.  She 
ventured  to  say  that  she  thought  he  was  doing  too 
much,  and  he  replied  that  he  had  to  keep  busy.  It 
was  in  her  answer  to  this  letter  that  she  asked  if  he 
were  going  on  with  his  novel.  His  reply  was  jocose ; 
he  hadn't  gone  on  with  the  story,  he  had  lost  faith  in 
it ;  he  was  afraid  that  his  facility  had  left  him ;  he 
couldn't  hope  now  to  be  anything  more  than  a  mere 
newspaper  hack ;  but  he  still  had  the  first  few  chap- 
ters in  his  desk ;  if  Miss  Johnson  cared  to  read  them, 
he  should  be  glad  to  send  them  on ;  she  needn't  be 
afraid  of  his  odious  handwriting;  he  had  had  them 
typewritten.  She  answered  immediately  that  she 
should  be  delighted  to  read  the  chapters.  Then  he 
said  that  he  wished  to  make  a  few  revisions  before 
submitting  the  sheets  to  her;  he  was  afraid  of  her 
criticisms;  he  hoped  she  wouldn't  think  he  was 
forcing  the  manuscript  on  her,  and  she  must  promise 
not  to  let  it  bore  her,  to  drop  it  as  soon  as  it  became 
tiresome. 

During  this  exchange  of  letters,  Madge  Guernsey 
herself  conducted  a  brisk  correspondence  with 
Jimmy  Wise ;  in  no  way  did  she  allow  the  attentions 
of  Willie  Boyd,  her  fellow  player  and  nightly  escort 
from  the  theatre,  to  interfere  with  this  pastime. 
Every  morning  Madge  watched  eagerly  for  the  mail, 


248      *f»      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *f» 

and  in  her  search  for  Jimmy's  brief,  businesslike 
notes,  she  was  obliged  to  scrutinise  the  letters  that 
came  for  Evelyn.  She  knew  the  handwriting  of  Mrs. 
Bowen  and  the  Stearns  boys  and  Ned  Osgood,  who, 
after  Oswald  Webb,  were  Evelyn's  most  faithful  cor- 
respondents, and  she  had  become  acquainted  with 
Webb's  by  a  chance,  which  had  once  caused  him  to 
said  Evelyn  a  note  enclosed  in  an  Argus  envel- 
ope. Madge  frequently  read  Jimmy's  letters  aloud, 
with  shrieks  of  laughter,  and  she  felt  piqued  because 
Evelyn  did  not  read  Oswald  Webb's.  At  the  break- 
fast-table one  morning  Evelyn  received  a  large  pack- 
age in  a  familiar  handwriting;  she  allowed  it  to  lie 
unopened  beside  her  plate.  Madge  was  soon  ab- 
sorbed in  a  smiling  perusal  of  a  communication  from 
Providence;  when  she  had  finished,  she  looked  at 
Evelyn's  package,  and  said,  with  a  knowing  glance : 

"  You  think  you're  awfully  cute,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Madge?  " 

"  Don't  you  suppose  I  know  where  that  came 
from?" 

"  It  came  from  Boston." 

"Boston!  Boston's  a  wonderful  place.  They 
have  wonderful  men  there.    Oh,  you  are  deep." 

"  I  didn't  know  that  I  was,  Madge,"  said  Evelyn, 
with  a  laugh  and  with  an  instinctive  dread  of  what 
was  coming. 

"I  always  thought  he  was  fond  of  you,"  said 
Madge,  with  pretended  carelessness,  tasting  her 
coffee.     "What  nice  coffee  Charity  makes." 

Evelyn  dropped  her  fork  on  the  plate.  "You 
mustn't  say  such  things,  Madge." 

^ "  Oh,  you  silly !     And  you  getting  letters  from 
him  — long,  long  letters,   a  mile  long!"   Madge 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     «f»      249 

cried,  throwing  out  her  arms  in  extravagant  bur- 
lesque. Then  she  dropped  her  arms,  pressed  her 
elbows  on  the  table,  rested  her  face  in  her  hands, 
and  said,  "  Has  he  proposed  yet  ?  " 

"  You're  talking  nonsense,  Madge,"  Evelyn  re- 
plied, quietly.  "  Mr.  Webb  has  been  kind  to  me, 
that's  all.  You  forget  that  his  wife  died  only  a 
few  months  ago." 

"  His  wife,  such  a  wife!  "  Madge  mocked. 

"  He's  merely  interested  in  me  on  account  —  on 
account  of  my  work,  on  account  of  my  being  an 
actress,"  cried  Evelyn,  egged  on  by  a  feverish  de- 
sire to  justify  herself. 

"  Then  he'll  marry  you  on  account  of  your  being 
an  actress." 

"  You  are  altogether  mistaken,  Madge,"  retorted 
Evelyn,  almost  petulantly.  "  He  wouldn't  —  he 
wouldn't  marry  an  actress." 

"  He  wouldn't !  "  Madge  indignantly  exclaimed. 
"  Then  he's  no  man  at  all.  Wouldn't  marry  an 
actress!  Well,  I  declare,  I'd  like  to  hear  him  say 
so.  I  guess  he'd  never  say  it  again,  and  I  guess 
you're  good  enough  for  any  man,  and  much  too 
good  for  a  man  like  him.  He  never  would  have 
amounted  to  anything  if  he  hadn't  married  a  rich 
wife.  That's  all  he  married  her  for,  just  because 
she  was  rich.  Not  marry  an  actress !  There,  now. 
Oh,  I  didn't  mean  anything.     Oh,  you  baby ! " 


XXXIV. 

Evelyn's  outbreak  not  only  shocked,  but  mys- 
tified Madge;  in  her  opinion,  men  were  not  to  be 
taken  seriously;  they  were  to  be  used  to  fetch  and 
carry,  to  be  made  sport  of,  to  be  loved  as  long  as 
they  continued  interesting  and  humble.  She  did 
not  believe  in  platonic  friendships,  and  her  only 
explanation  of  Evelyn's  correspondence  with  the 
Boston  editor  was  that  Oswald  Webb  wanted  to 
marry  Evelyn;  the  only  possible  cause  of  Evelyn's 
agitation  that  she  could  think  of  was  his  delay 
in  proposing.  Madge  had  seen  Evelyn  when  she 
was  in  love  with  Harold  Seymour;  there  had  been 
no  doubt  about  it  that  time.  Now,  however,  Evelyn 
had  the  air  of  being  a  "  free  woman,"  and  Madge 
had  a  theory  that  love  was  a  kind  of  slavery.  Alto- 
gether, the  situation  was  unaccountable. 

As  for  Evelyn  herself,  she  speedily  felt  ashamed 
of  having  lost  self-control.  She  had  left  the  table, 
shut  herself  up  in  her  room,  and  cried  for  several 
minutes.  When  she  went  back  to  the  dining-room 
and  secured  the  package,  Madge  had  already  gone 
out. 

"  You  ain't  teched  your  coffee,  honey,"  said  Char- 
ity, reproachfully,  as  Evelyn  started  to  return  to 
her  room. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  want  any  this  morning.  Yes, 
250 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      *^     251 

I  think  I  will  take  a  cup  of  coffee.  Get  me  a  fresh 
cup,  Charity." 

Instead  of  going  back  to  her  room,  Evelyn  sat 
down  at  the  writing-desk  in  the  parlour.  In  the 
tumult  of  feelings  which  her  tears  had  caused,  she 
had  decided  to  return  the  manuscript  to  Oswald 
Webb  unopened,  and  to  say  that  she  did  not  feel 
competent  to  pass  judgment  on  it.  She  would  not 
give  him  any  reason  to  think  that  she  was  leading 
him  on,  trying  to  pry  into  his  life,  to  have  a  part 
in  it.  Of  course  that  was  what  Madge  had  meant, 
that  she  was  flirting  with  a  man  whose  position  in 
life  was  so  different  from  her  own.  But  the  coffee 
straightened  out  her  logic,  made  her  perceive  her 
injustice  to  Madge,  to  Oswald  Webb,  and  to  her- 
self. If  she  sent  back  that  manuscript  after  ex- 
pressing a  desire  to  read  it,  Mr.  Webb  would  think 
that  she  either  didn't  care  to  take  the  trouble  to 
examine  it,  or  that  she  was  a  woman  of  quixotic 
impulses;  besides,  he  would  probably  abandon  the 
task. 

When  Evelyn  opened  the  package,  she  found 
that  there  were  eight  chapters  in  all,  each  separate, 
the  pages  held  together  with  a  clasp  in  the  upper 
left-hand  corner;  no  name  had  as  yet  been  given 
to  the  story.  Evelyn  glanced  rapidly  from  sheet 
to  sheet,  and  saw  that  Webb  had  made  many  verbal 
corrections  and  transpositions  and  eliminations  to 
improve  the  style.  In  a  few  places  he  had  changed 
names,  in  every  instance  supplying  names  full  of 
character.  Then  she  began  at  the  first  page,  and, 
without  rising  from  her  seat,  she  read  the  manu- 
script throughout. 

The  story  dealt  with  the  life  of  a  young  literary 


252     ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

man  who  had  married  a  woman  of  intense  religious 
feeHng;  he  was  himself  an  agnostic,  and  the  dis- 
cussions of  religion  and  philosophy  which  the  two 
had  together  were,  at  the  close  of  the  eighth  chapter, 
just  beginning  to  undermine  the  wife's  faith;  the 
climax  of  the  chapter  consisted  of  the  woman's  pas- 
sionate prayer  to  be  saved  from  the  darkness  of 
unbelief.  The  character  studies  were  keen,  and  here 
and  there  were  flashes  of  wit  and  of  epigram  and 
delightful  paradoxes  that  relieved  the  melancholy 
burden  of  the  narrative.  The  undertone  of  sadness 
that  Evelyn  had  discovered  in  the  other  stories  Webb 
had  written  seemed  intensified;  it  was  as  if  he  had 
come  to  regard  the  world  as  a  desert  of  pain  with 
only  occasional  oases  of  happiness.  The  maturer 
work  was,  of  course,  far  stronger  than  the  others; 
she  wondered  how  Oswald  Webb  could  have  felt 
doubtful  about  it;  but  she  really  liked  the  others 
better. 

When  she  finished  reading  it  was  nearly  time 
for  luncheon.  Madge  was  evidently  lunching  with 
one  of  her  friends  at  a  down-town  restaurant.  At 
table  Evelyn  thought  over  what  she  should  say,  and 
after  eating  she  began  to  write  her  first  literary 
criticism.  In  the  heat  of  composition  she  found 
herself  stating  theories  and  opinions  that  she  had 
never  before  suspected  herself  of  believing.  She 
began  by  telling  of  her  interest  in  the  story,  and  of 
her  eagerness  to  know  its  development  and  ending; 
it  would  be  a  great  pity,  a  great  shame,  not  to  go 
on  with  it;  then  she  went  into  an  analysis  of  the 
wife's  character.  In  her  opinion,  the  wife  wouldn't 
have  shown  how  shocked  she  had  been  at  discovering 
her  husband's  lack  of  faith ;  a  woman  of  her  strong 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^      253 

faith  and  character  would  have  concealed  her  horror, 
and  trusted  in  her  own  faith  to  help  her  bring  back 
her  husband  to  the  truth ;  this  deep  trust  would  have 
calmed  her,  would  have  given  her  a  spiritual  exal- 
tation which,  with  Mr.  Webb's  skill,  might  be  very 
effectively  described.  Then,  too,  she  doubted  if 
a  man  like  the  husband  would  have  been  so  ready 
to  undermine  his  wife's  beliefs;  most  men,  even 
those  with  no  religion  themselves,  liked  their  wives 
to  be  religious;  they  regarded  religion  as  almost  a 
part  of  a  woman's  nature.  Perhaps  she  was  wrong 
about  these  things;  she  couldn't  help  speaking  of 
them.  Then,  too,  there  was  one  thing  she  wanted 
particularly  to  mention,  and  yet  she  hated  to  speak 
of  it ;  she  feared  it  would  seem  like  an  impertinence. 
Didn't  Mr.  Webb  think  there  were  too  many  morbid 
things  in  the  world,  and  would  it  not  be  better  if  the 
morbid  were  kept  out  of  literature  altogether?  She 
disliked  saying  this  so  much  that  she  thought  of 
tearing  up  the  letter  and  beginning  another,  but  she 
said  to  herself  that  she  would  be  frank;  she  felt 
sure  he  would  understand.  As  an  apology  for  these 
criticisms,  she  praised  those  parts  of  the  story  that 
had  pleased  her,  dwelling  on  details  that  showed 
how  carefully  she  had  read  the  chapters;  she  even 
quoted  bits  here  and  there. 

When  she  had  finished  she  read  the  letter  over 
hastily  and  then  put  it  with  the  story,  which  she 
at  once  prepared  for  the  mail.  She  would  send  the 
story  back  at  once,  so  that  he  should  not  think  she 
had  delayed  in  reading  it;  but  her  eagerness  was 
really  due  to  a  fear  that  she  should  repent  the  writing 
of  the  letter  and  destroy  it.  Her  hand  trembled  as 
she  put  on  her  hat  to  go  to  the  local  post-office  with 


254    ♦      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f» 

the  package.  Her  cheeks  were  hot  as  she  went 
down  the  stairs,  holding  the  manuscript  under  one 
arm,  and  rubbing  on  her  long  gloves.  At  the  office 
she  had  the  package  weighed,  and  with  a  sigh  of 
relief  she  paid  for  the  stamps  and  went  on. 

She  hesitated  a  moment  on  the  doorsteps,  uncer- 
tain which  way  to  turn.  She  had  intended,  after 
doing  her  errand,  to  go  home  again ;  but  she  decided 
that  she  had  had  quite  enough  literary  occupation 
for  one  day,  and  that  she  would  stay  out-of-doors 
for  awhile;  there  was  shopping  that  she  had  to  do. 
So  she  started  for  the  elevated  station,  and  took  the 
train  for  down-town. 

At  Twenty-third  Street  she  got  ofif  and  walked 
in  the  surging  crowd  toward  Broadway.  Suddenly 
she  felt  some  one  clutch  her  arm ;  she  looked  around 
and  saw  Mrs.  Barton. 

The  old  lady  in  her  decent  black,  with  prim 
crimps  over  her  smooth  forehead,  seemed  the  per- 
sonification of  grandmotherhood. 

"  My  dear  child,"  she  said,  "  come  over  here  in 
one  of  these  doorways  where  I  can  talk  to  you." 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  better  if  we  went  into  the  wait- 
ing-room?" Evelyn  asked.     "We  can  talk  there." 

"  P'raps  it  would,"  Mrs.  Barton  assented,  lead- 
ing the  way.    "  Come  along." 

"Well,  how  are  you,  anyway?"  said  the  old 
woman,  who  had  curiously  youthful  mannerisms. 
Without  giving  Evelyn  time  to  reply,  she  went  on : 
"  What  luck  you've  had!  I've  heard  all  about  you 
through  Belle  Livingstone.  Ah,  but  you  lost  him 
after  all,  dear,"  she  added,  sympathetically,  as  they 
approached  the  waiting-room.  She  was  almost 
breathless  in  her  eagerness  to  reach  the  place,  and 


■^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      *^      255 

as  she  talked  she  had  to  keep  turning  to  address 
Evelyn,  and  looking  back  to  avoid  collisions. 

"  Lost  him  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  Evelyn  asked, 
as  they  entered  the  v^aiting-room  and  hunted  for 
seats. 

"  Here  —  let's  come  over  here  —  in  the  corner 
here."  Mrs.  Barton  bustled  over  to  the  place  where 
two  large  armchairs  were  waiting  to  receive  them. 
"  Sit  down  here !  That's  all  right.  It's  so  good 
to  see  you  ag^in."  She  sat  down  herself,  and  went 
on,  breathlessly :  "  Why,  I  meant  about  poor  dear 
Harold.  What  a  blow  it  must  have  been  to  you. 
I'm  so  glad  you  made  it  up  and  got  engaged  again." 

"  We  didn't,"  said  Evelyn,  helplessly. 

"  What !    Why,  I  thought  —  I  heard  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  it  wasn't  true." 

Mrs.  Barton  shook  her  head.  There  were  as- 
pects of  the  case  that  she  wished  very  much  to  dis- 
cuss;  but  she  did  not  dare  to  ask  questions. 

"  Where  are  you  ?  "  Evelyn  asked,  allowing  one 
hand  to  rest  in  the  old  woman's  affectionate  clasp. 

"  We  were  going  to  open  next  week  in  Hartford," 
Mrs.  Barton  replied,  sadly.  "  I  came  to  town  a 
fortnight  ago  —  from  my  niece's  in  Louisville,  for 
rehearsal.  Think  of  the  journey!  We  rehearsed 
for  a  week,  and  then  the  company  disbanded." 

"  What  was  the  matter?  " 

"  Some  trouble  about  the  backing.  They  had  a 
man  named  Harlowe.  He  lost  confidence  in  the 
piece  at  the  last  moment.  It  was  terrible.  They 
didn't  even  give  us  a  cent  for  fares." 

Mrs.  Barton  lifted  her  veil  to  wipe  her  eyes. 
"  I  don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  do.  I've  been 
round  to  see  Mrs.  Freeman,  and  she  promised  to 


256      ^     A  Daughter  of  Thespis 


look  out  for  something.  But  everything's  filled 
by  this  time." 

"  Where  are  you  living?  " 

"In  Thirty-fourth  Street  — Mrs.  Bird's.  She 
knows  me  —  I've  been  there  before  —  and  she  won't 
press  me  for  money  yet  awhile.  I  spent  all  I  made 
last  season  on  my  niece's  children.  Her  husband's 
been  unfortunate,  and  I  couldn't  stay  there  all  sum- 
mer without  doing  something.  It's  hard  for  a; 
woman  to  be  out  in  the  world  at  my  age." 

Evelyn  looked  at  Mrs.  Barton  helplessly.  She 
tried  to  think  of  something  she  could  do ;  suddenly 
an  idea  occurred  to  her.  "  Oh,  I'm  awfully  glad 
I  met  you,"  she  said.  "  You  know  Madge  Guernsey 
and  I  have  gone  to  housekeeping  at  the  Living- 
stones' flat;  I  suppose  Belle  Livingstone  told  you. 
Well,  we've  got  lots  of  room  —  three  bedrooms. 
We  want  some  one  like  you  with  us.  Will  you 
come?  " 

Mrs.  Barton's  face  brightened.  "  Do  you  mean 
to  live  with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  keep  house  with  us  —  be  our  housekeeper." 
Evelyn  flushed  at  the  thought  of  breaking  the  news 
to  Madge. 

"Why,"  said  the  old  woman,  "I  should  like 
nothing  better.    Only  —  " 

"  You  know,  if  we  had  a  housekeeper,  we'd  have 
to  pay  her,"  Evelyn  went  on,  "  but  we  can't  afford 
to  pay  you.  But  you  won't  have  any  board  to  pay," 
she  added,  with  a  shuddering  thought  of  Madge's 
resentment. 

"Oh,  you  darling!"  cried  Mrs.  Barton,  bending 
toward  Evelyn.    "  You're  the  most  —  "    Then  she 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     «f»      257 

checked  her  enthusiasm  and  shrank  back.  "  But  it 
does  seem  imposing  on  you." 

"  Imposing!  Nonsense!  Why,  you  might  as 
well  occupy  the  room.  Then  you  can  order  the  meals 
for  us.    Madge  and  I  just  hate  that." 

Evelyn  uttered  this  untruth  with  an  air  of  fervid 
sincerity.  The  novelty  of  ordering  for  the  table 
had  been  to  her  one  of  the  chief  pleasures  of  house- 
keeping. 

"Well,  I'll  come,"  said  Mrs.  Barton,  with  the 
sigh  of  one  who  has  just  passed  through  a  struggle. 

"  All  right.  Madge  will  be  glad,  too,"  Evelyn 
continued,  feeling  that  she  was  adding  lie  upon  lie. 
"When  will  you  come?" 

"  My  week's  up  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Barton  hesitated.     "I  —  I  —  " 

"  What  is  it?  "  Evelyn  asked.  "  Do  come.  I'll 
be  awfully  sorry  if  you  don't." 

"  Well,  the  fact  is,"  said  the  old  woman,  her 
cheeks  shot  with  a  faint  flush,  "  Fm  owing  Mrs. 
Bird,  and  I'm  afraid  I  can't  get  away  —  " 

Evelyn  thrust  her  hand  into  her  pocket  and  drew 
out  her  purse.     "  How  much  ?    I'll  lend  it  to  you." 

"  Twelve  dollars.    But  I  do  hate  —  " 

"  Hush,  hush !  I  guess  I've  had  to  borrow  myself 
in  my  life.  Here!  Now,  I've  got  some  things  to 
buy,  and  I  must  drag  up-town  for  dinner  and  down 
again  for  the  theatre.  So  I'll  hurry  along.  Won't 
you  come,  too  ?  Going  to  stay  here  ?  Tired  ?  There, 
now  don't,  please  don't.  And  be  sure  to  come  before 
luncheon." 

On  finishing  her  shopping  Evelyn  felt  exhausted, 
and  after  climbing  up  the  steep  steps  of  the  elevated 
station,  she  was  glad  to  drop  into  the  seat  in  the 


258      «f»      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

crowded  train  that  was  offered  her.  As  she  went 
up-town  she  thought  over  the  events  of  the  day; 
it  seemed  a  long  time  since  morning  —  so  many 
things  had  happened.  She  began  to  worry  over  the 
letter  she  had  written  to  Oswald  Webb;  now  that 
her  fever  of  enthusiasm  was  passed,  possibly  be- 
cause she  was  tired,  it  seemed  almost  impertinent; 
when  she  reached  Fiftieth  Street  she  was  sorry 
she  had  been  in  such  a  hurry  to  send  it  off;  at 
Fifty-ninth  Street  she  regretted  bitterly  that  she 
had  written  it;  at  Seventy-second  Street,  where 
she  left  the  train,  she  said  to  herself  that  she  would 
give  almost  anything  in  the  world  to  get  it  back. 
She  wondered  if  she  could  get  it.  Of  course  not. 
The  post-office  people  never  returned  letters  when 
they  had  been  dropped  into  the  box.  But  if  she 
explained  that  she  had  left  the  package,  and  begged 
them  to  let  her  have  it  again,  they  might  give  it  up. 
But  by  this  time  it  had  probably  started  for  Boston ; 
still  there  was  a  chance  that  it  had  been  held  for 
the  evening  mail.  As  these  thoughts  passed  through 
her  mind,  her  steps  were  mechanically  conducting 
her  home.  For  a  moment  she  stopped,  trying  to 
decide  whether  to  go  back  to  the  post-office.  Any- 
•  way,  it  would  be  worth  trying.  So  she  hurried  to 
the  place.  But  when  she  arrived  there  the  folly 
of  her  errand  struck  her,  and  she  stood  at  the  door 
with  her  hand  on  the  latch  looking  through  the 
window.  Two  men  were  talking  with  the  clerk, 
and  behind  the  letter-boxes  she  could  see  several 
carriers  sorting  the  mail.  One  of  the  men  looked 
around  at  her,  and  she  turned  shamefaced  away. 
She  walked  up  the  street  a  few  yards  and  stood  on 
the  curbstone,  trying  with  an  agonising  effort  to 


*^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     ^      259 

make  up  her  mind  whether  to  go  in  and  ask  for  the 
package  or  to  start  back  for  home.  While  she  was 
hesitating,  a  policeman  slouched  along  and  eyed 
her  suspiciously.  With  an  impulsive  movement  she 
turned  toward  the  post-office;  then  she  checked 
herself,  faced  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  has- 
tened back  to  Seventy-first  Street,  bending  before 
the  fierce  October  wind. 


XXXV. 

On  reaching  home,  Evelyn  threw  herself  on  her 
bed,  put  her  hands  to  her  hot  temples,  and  tried  for 
a  few  moments  to  rest.  Then  she  rose  quickly,  and 
began  to  prepare  for  dinner.  At  the  table  she 
ignored  the  episode  of  the  morning,  and  told  Madge 
of  her  meeting  with  Mrs.  Barton  and  its  conse- 
quences. At  first  Madge  looked  blank;  then  Eve- 
lyn made  such  a  pathetic  picture  of  the  old  woman's 
misfortunes  that  the  soubrette's  sympathy  was 
touched. 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  it's  kind  of  tough  for  a  woman 
at  her  age  to  be  out  of  a  job.  But  she's  an  awful 
gossip.  She'll  just  pry  into  our  affairs  every  min- 
ute." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  we  can  keep  our  secrets  to  our- 
selves if  we  have  any."  Evelyn  regretted  this 
speech,  but  Madge  generously  allowed  it  to  pass 
with  only  a  faint  smile  for  comment.  "  Besides," 
Evelyn  went  on,  feeling  that  she  ought  to  bear  the 
whole  responsibility  of  her  impulse  of  the  after- 
noon, "  I'll  pay  for  her  board." 

"  Well,  I  guess  not.  It  won't  cost  any  more  to 
have  her.  She  don't  eat  much.  She's  so  used  to 
stinting  herself  at  hotels  that  she  can't  get  up  an 
appetite  any  more." 

"Then  she'll  look  after  things,"  said  Evelyn, 
260 


<)p»  A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»     261 

trying  to  give  Mrs.  Barton  a  legitimate  place  in 
the  household.    "  We'll  make  her  our  housekeeper." 

Madge,  after  a  moment's  silence,  remarked,  with 
a  sigh :  "  Well,  I  s'pose  I  can  stand  it.  You've 
got  to  expect  these  things  when  you  live  with  a 
saint." 

Mrs.  Barton  arrived  on  Friday  morning,  and  at 
once  made  herself  a  member  of  the  family.  Her 
gratitude  to  Evelyn  showed  itself  in  untiring  efforts 
to  be  of  service.  The  domestic  instinct,  which  in 
her  had  been  restrained  by  the  exigencies  of  her 
profession,  asserted  itself,  and  she  took  delight  in 
managing  the  little  household,  in  dusting  the  furni- 
ture, in  directing  Charity  in  the  kitchen,  and  also 
in  doing  some  of  the  cooking  herself.  She  had, 
besides,  a  knack  at  dressmaking,  and  she  made  some 
house  dresses  for  Evelyn  and  Madge  for  which  they 
had  intended  to  employ  a  dressmaker. 

One  night  during  the  performance  Leonard 
Thayer  went  behind  the  scenes  and  met  Evelyn  in 
the  wings.  "  Good  evening,"  he  said.  "  I've  come 
around  to  ask  if  you  were  ready  for  our  expedition." 

"  What  expedition  ?  "  she  said,  looking  up  into 
his  face. 

"  Why,  to  the  print-shops.  Don't  you  remember 
our  talk  at  your  boarding-house?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  But  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  it. 
You  hadn't  spoken  of  it." 

"  I  wasn't  sure  you  really  wanted  to  go,"  he  re- 
plied. "  But  I'm  going  to-morrow,  and  if  you're 
willing  I'll  call  for  you  in  the  afternoon." 

"  I  should  like  that,  and  can  Madge  come,  too  ?  " 

"  Why,  certainly,"   he  said,  with  a  promptness 


262      ^     A  Daughter  of  Thespis 


and  with  a  suggestion  of  confusion  in  his  voice 
that  made  Evelyn  wonder  if  he  were  really  pleased. 

She  bade  Leonard  Thayer  good-bye  and  hurried 
to  her  dressing-room,  where  she  had  to  make  a 
change  in  her  make-up.  Madge  was  delighted  with 
her  invitation. 

"Don't  say  anything  about  it  to  Willie,  dear. 
He's  been  getting  awfully  jealous  lately.  Some- 
body's been  telling  him  about  Jimmy.  I  wonder  if 
it  could  be  that  hateful  Helen  Gordon  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  Evelyn  replied,  as  she  touched  her  face 
deftly  with  a  powder-puff  to  make  herself  look 
pale  for  her  next  scene.  "  She  doesn't  know  any- 
thing about  Jimmy." 

"  Well,  what  she  doesn't  know  isn't  worth  know- 
mg. 

Thayer  came  the  next  afternoon  and  brought 
with  him  Franklin  Mills,  a  tall,  amiable  youth,  with 
a  smooth  face,  a  broad  smile,  and  an  enormous 
collar.  He  explained  that  he  had  just  picked  Mills 
up  at  the  club,  and  that  Mills  had  insisted,  against 
his  protest,  in  joining  the  party;  so,  as  his  friend 
didn't  have  a  thing  in  the  world  to  do,  he  had 
allowed  him  to  come  out  of  pity,  just  to  give  him 
an  occupation  for  the  afternoon.  Evelyn  saw  Mills 
turn  upon  Thayer  a  glance  of  mingled  reproach 
and  amusement  when  the  explanation  was  made, 
and  she  drew  conclusions.  Madge  quickly  appro- 
priated the  stranger,  and  they  started  down  to  the 
elevated  station  in  gjeat  spirits. 

As  they  crossed  Twenty-third  Street,  crowded 
with  shoppers,  Thayer  said,  "  I  expect  to  get  my 
Tragic    Muse   to-day.      They    had    some   trouble 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»      263 

about  finding  me  a  copy;  but  they  sent  me  a  post- 
card yesterday,  and  said  they'd  discovered  one." 

"  I  don't  think  I've  ever  seen  it,"  said  Evelyn. 

"  It's  fine.  I  know  you'll  be  impressed.  I've 
wanted  a  copy  for  a  long  time.  Are  you  fond  of 
pictures  of  actors?  " 

"  No,"  Evelyn  replied,  promptly,  thinking  of  the 
ghastly  array  of  Mrs.  Freeman's. 

"  You're  not  ?  How  curious,"  he  rephed.  "  But 
I  suppose  it's  because  you  get  so  much  of  the  theatre. 
I've  always  liked  them.  I  had  a  big  collection  of 
them  when  I  was  in  college,  and  now  I've  got  them 
all  and  a  lot  more  in  my  den  at  home.  I'm  especially 
fond  of  pictures  of  the  old  actors.  I've  found  some 
good  ones  down  at  the  shop  where  we're  going  now. 
Macready  and  Forrest  and  Fanny  Kemble  are  all 
there.  I  wish  you  could  see  my  engraving  of  Peg 
Woffington.  I'm  immensely  proud  of  that.  I've 
even  got  a  picture  of  Miss  O'Neill.  You've  heard 
of  her,  haven't  you  ?  " 

"  Never,"  said  Evelyn. 

"  You've  never  heard  of  Miss  O'Neill !  "  he  said, 
in  surprise.  She  pressed  her  lips  together  and 
shook  her  head,  just  as  a  burly  policeman  seized 
her  by  the  arm  and  prevented  her  crossing  Broad- 
way. Thayer  was  so  absorbed  in  talking  that  he 
hadn't  noticed  the  carriage  that  came  splashing 
past  them. 

"  Don't  you  like  to  read  the  lives  of  actors  ? " 
he  said,  as  they  resumed  their  walk.  Madge  and 
young  Mills  were  already  at  some  distance  ahead 
of  them. 

"  I've  read  only  a  few,"  she  said.  "  Most  of 
them  seem  so  empty  to  me." 


264     ^     A  Daughter  of  Thespis 


This  was  apparently  a  new  idea  to  him,  and  he 
stopped  to  consider  it. 

"  Empty ! "  he  repeated,  after  a  pause.  "  Why, 
I've  never  thought  of  that.  But  the  subject  of 
the  theatre  is  so  fascinating  that  I  never  tire  of 
reading  about  it.     But  you  like  the  stage,  don't 

you?" 

"  I  like  it  because  I  can  earn  my  living  by  it," 
she  replied.  "  I  don't  think  I  like  it  for  anything 
else." 

"  How  odd,"  he  said,  half  to  himself. 

"Odd?  Does  it  seem  odd  to  you  that  any  one 
should  dislike  it  —  the  sham  of  it,  and  all  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that.  I  was  thinking 
of  a  remark  the  Mater  made  about  you  the  first 
night  of  the  piece." 

"What  was  that?" 

"  Oh,  she  liked  you,  you  know,"  he  said,  hastily. 
"  She  liked  you  very  much.  But  she  said  —  "  He 
paused  abruptly.  Then  he  went  on,  "  I  don't  think 
I'd  better  tell  you.    I'm  afraid  you'll  be  offended." 

"  No,  I  sha'n't.     I  should  like  to  hear." 

"Well,"  he  went  on,  at  last,  "now  that  I've 
said  so  much,  I  might  as  well  out  with  it.  The 
Mater  is  awfully  sharp.  She  often  gives  me  points 
for  my  stories  —  not  intentionally,  but  by  her  ob- 
servations. She  says  my  women  are  horrible.  That 
first  night —    Well,  I  guess  I  won't." 

"  Oh,  you  must  now,  you  must."  Then,  as  he 
hesitated,  Evelyn  went  on,  "  Oh,  I  know  what  it 
was.  She  said  I  wasn't  fit  for  the  stage,  that  I 
couldn't  act,  something  like  that." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  he  exclaimed,  with  distress  in  his 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     ^      265 

eyes,  "  nothing  Hke  that.  Now,  of  course,  I'll  tell 
you." 

He  looked  down  into  her  face  and  saw  that  she 
was  smiling.  "  Oh,  that  was  a  little  trick,"  he  cried. 
**  How  like  a  woman." 

"  There  you  are,  abusing  women  again."  She 
tried  to  pretend  that  she  was  vexed;  but  she  went 
on  smiling  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  do  that,"  he  said,  humbly. 
"  I  meant  to  be  complimentary." 

"  But  you  haven't  told  me  yet  what  your  mother 
said." 

"  Well,  she  said  —  it  wasn't  much,  after  all,  now 
that  we've  made  a  great  ado  about  it.  She  merely 
said  —  you  know  she  liked  you  —  she  liked  you 
very  much." 

"  Yes,  you  said  that  before." 

He  seemed  to  brace  himself  up  for  an  effort. 
"  She  said  that  your  heart  wasn't  in  your  work. 
She  said  you  did  Mathilde  perfectly,  because  the 
character  fitted  you." 

Evelyn  looked  relieved.     "  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  row  with  her  on  the  subject.  I  insisted 
that  your  heart  was  in  your  work.  Don't  you 
remember  I  told  you  the  first  night  that  you  were 
all  heart?" 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  she  acknowledged,  flushing. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  moment.  "  So 
you  think  the  Mater  was  right?  "  he  said,  absently. 
"  I'm  surprised.  And  yet,  I  don't  know.  It's  a 
strange  life  —  for  a  —  for  a  woman.  Yet,  it's  glo- 
rious, too.  It  gives  me  the  old  thrill  yet.  I  wanted 
to  go  on  the  stage  once  myself." 

"Why  didn't  you?" 


266     •*►      A  Daughter  of  Thespis 


"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  In  the  first  place,  I  knew 
it  would  make  the  Mater  miserable." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Evelyn. 

"  And  then,  I  thought  it  all  over,  and  I  decided 
it  would  mean  giving  up  too  much,  and  I  shouldn't 
like  the  life.    Besides,  I  wanted  to  write." 

"  You  were  wise,"  she  said,  thoughtfully.  "  You 
wouldn't  have  liked  the  life,  and  you  would  have 
despised  actors  even  more  than  you  do  now." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  shop.  Madge 
and  her  escort  were  waiting  for  them  on  the  side- 
walk, and  looking  at  the  photographs  in  the  win- 
dow. The  dingy  little  place  was  filled  with  pictures 
of  theatrical  and  literary  celebrities,  most  of  them 
wearing  the  dress  of  many  years  before,  and 
with  second-hand  books,  chiefly  novels,  offered  for 
sale  at  amazingly  low  prices.  The  photographs  of 
writers  interested  Evelyn  more  than  the  others. 
Madge  discovered  a  photograph  of  Helen  Gordon, 
taken  apparently  during  the  actress's  first  season  on 
the  stage.  Miss  Gordon,  in  her  old-fashioned  gown 
and  her  enormous  black  hat  with  plumes,  looked 
many  years  older  than  she  now  seemed.  Madge 
at  once  purchased  the  photograph  for  ten  cents, 
and  declared  she'd  have  great  fun  with  it  at  the 
theatre.  While  they  were  looking  at  the  old  prints, 
the  man  disappeared  in  the  back  of  the  shop,  and 
presently  came  back  with  the  picture  in  his  hand 
that  Leonard  Thayer  had  long  coveted, 

"  Ah,"  Thayer  said,  seizing  it,  "  so  you  got  it 
at  last !  "  He  looked  at  it  carefully  for  a  moment ; 
then  he  exclaimed,  "  And  it's  an  uncommonly  fine 
copy.  See  how  clear  it  is.  Look,  Miss  Johnson, 
isn't  it  fine?" 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^     267 

It  was  in  a  cheap  frame  of  gilded  wood  with  a 
piece  of  cracked  glass  over  it.  "  Even  the  glass 
doesn't  spoil  it,"  said  Thayer,  as  he  passed  it  into 
Evelyn's  hands, 

Evelyn  held  it  up  so  that  they  could  all  look  at 
it.  They  examined  it  for  a  moment  without  speak- 
ing. 

"  It  is  beautiful,"  Evelyn  said,  her  face  lighted 
up  with  admiration.    "  Yes,  beautiful." 

"  Doesn't  it  make  you  realise  how  fine  dramatic 
art  is  ?  " 

"  It  makes  me  realise  how  fine  it  can  be,"  she 
replied,  without  taking  her  eyes  from  Mrs.  Siddons's 
face. 

"  I've  a  great  mind  to  give  it  to  you.  Do  you 
think  you  could  get  another  ?  "  he  asked,  turning 
to  the  dealer. 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  a  far-away 
look  appeared  in  his  eyes.  "  Not  so  good  as  that," 
he  said.  "  But  I  could  get  another  one  that  would 
be  very  good." 

"  Then  you  take  this,"  said  Thayer,  turning, 
impulsively,  to  Evelyn.     "Won't  you,  please?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  she  said.  "  I  really  couldn't.  Please 
don't  ask  me."  She  tried  to  turn  her  refusal  into 
a  joke  by  adding,  "  It  would  be  a  continued  reproach 
to  me  for  not  liking  the  stage  more,  and  for  not 
being  a  better  actress." 

"  I  really  wish  you  would  take  it,"  Thayer  said, 
wistfully.  "  I  can  see  that  you  really  like  it,"  and 
"  Don't  be  a  ninny,"  Madge  urged,  under  her  breath. 

"  I'm  not  really  giving  it  to  you,  you  know," 
Thayer  went  on,  whimsically.  "  I'm  giving  it  to 
Mathilde." 


268      ^     A  Daughter  of  Thespis 


Evelyn  flushed.  "  Well,  then,  Mathilde  will  take 
it.    Perhaps  she's  more  worthy  of  it  than  I  am." 

Thayer  left  orders  that  the  engraving  should  be 
sent  to  Evelyn's  address,  and  shortly  afterward  they 
left  the  place  and  visited  several  of  the  shops  in 
Fourth  Avenue.  In  these  Evelyn  found  many 
curious  things  to  interest  her;  old  bits  of  furniture, 
china,  and  bric-a-brac,  quaint  books  and  pictures, 
pieces  of  tapestry,  and  broken  suits  of  armour. 
Madge  and  her  escort  were  greatly  bored  by  "  the 
rubbish,"  as  the  soubrette  called  it. 

"  My  rooms  are  filled  with  things  that  I've  picked 
up  in  these  places,"  said  Thayer.  "  The  Mater 
chaffs  me  about  them,  and  they  nearly  drive  the 
maids  crazy.  I  wish  you  could  see  the  candelabra 
that  I  foiund  here  one  day,  in  this  very  shop,  last 
winter.  Oh,  this  is  the  side  of  New  York  life 
that  I  like  best.    It's  so  dingy  and  queer." 

It  was  after  five  o'clock  when  they  ended  their 
visits  to  the  shops,  and  Evelyn  was  nervous  for 
fear  they  should  be  late  for  the  theatre. 

"  We  must  hurry  home,  Madge,"  she  said.  "  We 
ought  not  to  have  stayed  so  long." 

"  Well,  it  was  your  own  fault.  Mr.  Mills  and 
I  are  nearly  dead.  That  is,"  Madge  corrected  her- 
self just  before  the  young  man  could  interpose,  "  I 
should  be  if  he  wasn't  so  interesting." 

"  Do  you  think  it's  worth  while  going  way  up- 
town for  dinner?  "  said  Thayer.  "  It  seems  a  pity 
to  tire  yourselves  out  so  for  nothing.  We  might 
have  a  little  dinner-party  together." 

"  Oh,  gopd!  "  said  Madge. 

"  No,  Madge,  I  think  we'd  better  go  home,"  Eve- 
lyn objected,  weakly.     "  Mrs.  Barton  will  worry." 


*«»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      269 

"  Worry !  Oh,  you'd  think  we  were  two  kids 
from  the  way  you  talk.  I  guess  Mrs.  Barton  knows 
we're  able  to  take  care  of  ourselves." 

The  combined  argument  of  her  companions  finally 
persuaded  Evelyn  to  abandon  the  trip  up-town. 

"  Can't  we  go  to  some  lovely  Bohemian  res- 
taurant ?  "  Madge  suggested. 

"  I  know  a  place  that  will  just  suit  you,  Miss 
Guernsey,"  said  Thayer. 

They  walked  across  to  the  Fourteenth  Street 
station  of  the  elevated  and  went  down  to  the 
Bohemian  resort.  The  squalor  of  the  neighbour- 
hood contrasted  oddly  with  the  gleaming  whdte 
tables,  the  clean  wood  floor,  the  little  French  pic- 
tures on  the  walls.  Indeed,  the  general  respectability 
of  the  place  and  its  frequenters  distinctly  disap- 
pointed Madge,  who  said  she  had  expected  some- 
thing "  wicked."  They  were  very  gay  over  the 
macaroni  and  the  cheap  claret,  and  the  queer  dishes 
with  French  names  that  Madge  pretended  to  under- 
stand, and  disgraced  herself  by  trying  to  pronounce. 

The  elaborate  table  d'hote  detained  them  so  long 
that  they  had  to  hurry  away  to  the  theatre  before 
they  could  drink  their  coffee.  But  it  had  been  a 
pleasant  afternoon,  and  it  made  Evelyn  feel  young 
again.  During  the  past  year  she  had  begun  to  feel 
alarmingly  old,  like  most  women  nearing  thirty. 


XXXVI. 

Oswald  Webb  had  made  an  immediate  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  criticism  of  his  story.  He  began  by 
complimenting  Evelyn  on  its  excellence  as  a  piece 
of  literary  workmanship,  adding  facetiously  that 
when  she  grew  tired  of  being  an  actress  she  might 
take  his  place  as  book  reviewer  of  the  Argus.  Then 
he  thanked  her  for  the  trouble  she  had  taken;  he 
quite  agreed  with  several  of  her  criticisms,  and  he 
would  alter  that  scene  in  the  fourth  chapter  between 
the  husband  and  wife;  but  he  really  did  think  that 
a  man  of  Weston's  sort  —  the  searching,  argumen- 
tative, philosophic  type  —  would  unconsciously,  per- 
haps, but  none  the  less  certainly,  try  to  break  down 
a  faith  which  he  believed  to  be  irrational  and  which 
was  always  annoying  him;  he  would  forget  how 
much  it  meant  to  his  wife;  in  his  enthusiasm  for 
what  he  believed  to  be  the  truth,  and  his  love  of 
correct  reasoning,  he  would  forget  to  be  tolerant, 
he  would  sacrifice  anything,  even  the  happiness  of 
the  woman  he  loved.  As  for  the  morbidness  of  the 
story,  Webb  was  afraid  he  couldn't  help  that ;  per- 
haps it  was  the  "reflex  of  his  own  dark  mind." 
He  believed  with  Miss  Johnson  that  the  morbid 
in  literature  was  dangerous;  but,  after  all,  ought 
not  all  writers  to  be  allowed  to  work  out  their 
conceptions  in  their  own  way?  He  sometimes  felt 

270 


*f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      *^     271 

that  at  any  cost  the  freedom  and  breadth  of  Hter- 
ature  ought  to  be  preserved.  As  she  read,  Evelyn 
felt  that  the  argument  was  getting  beyond  her  depth ; 
it  was  absurd  of  her  to  rush  into  such  a  discussion. 
However,  Oswald  Webb's  reply  had  made  her  banish 
her  regret.  He  was  going  on  with  the  work.  That 
was  enough. 

During  the  month  of  November  the  audiences 
at  "  Deception  "  grew  unexpectedly  large.  Many 
theatre  parties  were  formed,  and  the  boxes  were 
always  crowded.  The  actors  predicted  that  the  play 
would  run  through  the  season.  Several  of  them, 
among  them  Miss  Gordon  herself,  took  a  great  in- 
terest in  the  "  swagger  people  "  who  were  discerned 
every  night  in  front.  They  would  gather  at  the 
side  of  the  curtain  and  at  the  peep-holes.  Helen 
Gordon,  who  was  an  authority  on  New  York  society, 
usually  discovered  and  pointed  out  the  celebrities; 
after  relating  their  histories,  always  more  or  less 
scandalous,  she  would  sweep  on  the  stage  and  act 
superbly.  To  Evelyn  she  was  a  continual  source 
of  wonder.  Evelyn  often  stood  in  the  wings  trying 
vainly  to  catch  the  secret  of  the  actress's  power;  it 
was  a  power  that  never  lost  its  sincerity,  that  never 
failed  to  move.  On  one  of  these  occasions,  just 
after  making  an  exit.  Miss  Gordon  met  Evelyn  in 
the  wings. 

"  Oh,  I've  some  news  for  you,  dear.  My  divorce 
is  going  to  be  granted  next  week."  When  Evelyn 
had  offered  congratulations.  Miss  Gordon  went  on : 
"  Yes,  Judge  Cowdrey  says  he's  sure  it'll  be  all 
right.  I  shall  be  free  again,"  she  cried,  throwing 
up  her  arms  and  walking  dramatically  down  the 
corridor.     "  Free,  free !  " 


272     ♦      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *?• 


One  afternoon  at  the  mutinee,  Evelyn  met  Leonard 
Thayer  as  he  was  leaving  the  theatre. 

"  How  fortunate,"  he  said.  "  I'll  walk  home  with 
you." 

Evelyn  laughed.  "  To  Seventy-first  Street  ?  Then 
you'll  have  to  stay  for  dinner  and  sit  in  Miss  Guern- 
sey's place.  Madge  is  dining  down-town.  Mrs. 
Barton  will  be  glad  to  have  you." 

"  I  lived  up  in  your  neighbourhood  once,"  said 
Thayer,  as  they  walked  slowly  toward  the  elevated 
station.  "  That  was  several  years  ago.  I  had  a 
falling  out  with  my  Mater,  and  I  took  an  apartment 
all  by  myself.  It  was  just  after  I  left  college,  and 
the  Mater  and  I  didn't  quite  understand  each  other. 
She  was  disappointed  in  me." 

"  Disappointed  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  wished  me  to  go  in  for  the  law.  My 
father  made  a  reputation  as  a  lawyer,  and  she 
was  awfully  proud  of  him;  so  she  wanted  me 
to  follow  in  his  footsteps  and  all  that.  When  I 
left  Harvard  she  sent  me  to  Europe  for  a  year. 
She  thought  that  would  cure  me  of  some  of  my 
ideas  about  the  ideal  life  that  I  got  there." 

"  What  were  they  ?  "  Evelyn  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  wanted  to  go  in  for  philanthropy  and 
literature  and  a  lot  of  other  things  at  the  same  time," 
he  laughed.  "  The  Mater  didn't  object  to  the  phi- 
lanthropy as  a  kind  of  side  issue,  you  know.  She's 
philanthropic  herself,  for  that  matter;  she's  always 
helping  people.    But  she  did  object  to  the  literature." 

"  How  curious !  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  think  she  fancied  it  was 
a  kind  of  excuse  for  being  lazy.  Sometimes  it  is. 
It  was  while  I  was  in  Germany,  you  know,  I  wrote 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      273 

'  Myraa,'  and  when  I  got  back  I  had  the  Uterary 
fever  worse  than  ever." 

"  But  your  mother  must  have  Hked  *  Myma.'  " 

"  Oh,  she  said  it  was  pretty.  She  always  pretends 
to  laugh  at  my  things.  It's  her  way.  But '  Myrna  ' 
didn't  go  at  first.  In  fact,  I  didn't  really  catch  on 
till  '  Social  Parasites  '  appeared.  That  was  my  first 
real  book." 

"  Perhaps  you'll  tell  me  now  why  you  changed 
your  style,"  Evelyn  asked. 

"  I  should  think  you  could  imagine  from  what 
I  told  you,"  he  went  on.  "  '  Myrna  '  I  wrote  during 
my  year  in  Germany.  It  was  my  first  acquaintance 
with  Europe,  and  the  traditions  of  the  places  I 
visited  made  me  poetic." 

"  And  was  that  all  ?  "  Evelyn  asked,  shrewdly. 
"  Was  it  just  the  scenery  and  the  associations  of 
Europe  that  made  you  romantic?" 

"You  think  I  fell  in  love,  don't  you?" 

"  Perhaps." 

"Well,  I  did.  I  had  a  delightful  love-affair 
with  a  little  German  girl.  It  wasn't  serious,  you 
know.  It  was  just  one  of  those  ideal  experiences 
that  only  a  boy  of  twenty-two  or  so  can  have ;  and 
then  he  never  has  one  again.  She  married  a  stout 
beer-drinking  officer." 

"  How  sad !  "  she  said,  mockingly. 

"  Yes,  wasn't  it  ?  But  I  forgave  her,  and  sent 
her  my  blessing.  That  episode  lent  a  kind  of  dim 
religious  colouring  to  my  life  —  for  awhile.  It  was 
very  touching.  For  several  weeks  I  travelled  about 
imagining  myself  a  young  Byron,  and  as  I  went 
from  place  to  place  in  Switzerland,  I  wrote  my  story. 
Then  I  came  back  to  New  York  and  I  quarrelled 


274    ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

with  the  Mater.  That  made  me  blue  for  a  long 
time.  The  Mater  and  I  had  been  good  friends, 
good  comrades,  ever  since  my  father  died.  I  was 
sixteen  then.  Then,  too,  the  ugliness  of  American 
life  sickened  me,  especially  the  ugliness  of  New 
York.  Yet  before  I  left  America  I  thought  there 
couldn't  be  a  more  beautiful  place  in  the  world." 

"  But  you've  got  over  that?  " 

"Oh,  yes.  I  adjusted  myself  to  things  again. 
But  it  had  a  paralysing  effect  for  a  long  time.  I 
loafed  for  six  months,  and  I  went  off  with  the  Mater 
to  Newport.  You  see,  we  tried  to  be  good  friends, 
just  the  same.  That's  the  worst  kind  of  a  quarrel 
—  where  you  pretend  it's  all  made  up  and  all  right. 
And  then  down  in  Newport  I  flirted  desperately." 

"  Ah,  I  see.    That  explains  it." 

"  I  knew  you'd  think  that.  So  it  does  in  a  way. 
I  was  caught  on  the  rebound.  But  I  woke  up  in 
time.  I  found  that  my  ideal  Number  Two  was 
utterly  heartless.  Then  I  went  back  to  New  York, 
wrote  *  Social  Parasites,'  and  —  " 

"  Made  your  success." 

He  laughed.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that. 
My  Newport  friends  were  furious.  You  know  the 
three  swells  I  put  into  it  are  the  worst  characters 
in  the  book." 

"Yes,  they  certainly  are.  I  wondered  at  the 
time  if  you  were  just  to  them.  It  seemed  to  me  so 
strange  that  people  with  so  —  with  so  many  ad- 
vantages should  profit  so  little  by  them." 

"  So  many  disadvantages,  it  seems  to  me.  I 
wonder  they're  not  worse.  Our  society  is  so  hideous 
that  it's  strange  to  me  the  people  in  it  can  be  as 
good  as  they  are.    It's  the  rich  people,  not  the  poor, 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^      275 

that  are  the  worst  sufferers  in  life.  And  the 
strangest  part  of  it  is  that  they  never  suspect  it. 
Until  they  do  there's  no  help  for  them.  Now  there 
is  my  mother.  Ever  since  I  got  adjusted  again 
to  American  life,  I've  wondered  how  she  could 
be  so  good  as  she  is.  *  Social  Parasites '  taught  me 
a  lot  of  things  —  more  than  it  teaches  any  one  else, 
I'm  afraid.  Now  the  Mater  has  spent  her  whole 
life  in  society ;  it's  part  of  her  being,  and  she  believes 
in  it  and  its  foolish  regulations  as  fervidly  as  if  it 
were  her  religion,  more  fervidly,  for  that  matter. 
But  in  spite  of  it,  she's  kept  herself  good  and  kind 
and  sincere.  She's  the  best  mother  a  man  ever  had. 
Of  course,  she  has  her  prejudices.  I  never  knew 
any  one  that  had  so  many  social  prejudices.  But 
when  these  run  up  against  her  heart  —  why,  the 
heart  wins  every  time." 

"  Then  you've  made  up  your  misunderstanding?  " 
Evelyn  ventured  to  ask. 

"  Yes  —  after  the  Newport  summer.  It  was  the 
girl  that  did  it.  I've  been  grateful  to  that  girl 
ever  since.  No,  not  ever  since  —  just  lately.  It 
took  me  some  time  to  get  over  it."  He  began  to 
laugh.  "  It's  pretty  hard  for  us  to  recognise  our 
blessings  sometimes,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  asked,  suddenly, 
looking  down  at  Evelyn.  "  The  Mater,  she  thought 
my  life  was  blighted,"  he  went  on.  "  It  seems  very 
funny  now,  when  I  think  of  it.  I  never  told  her  a 
word,  and  yet  I'm  convinced  she  knew  all  about  it. 
Every  one  did,  for  that  matter;  the  girl  took  care 
of  that  when  her  engagement  was  announced.  He's 
dead  now,  and  she's  got  all  his  money.  The  Mater 
treated  me  as  if  I'd  been  a  sick  child.     She  even 


276     «^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

gave  up  all  thought  of  the  law,  and  she  stopped 
kicking  against  literature." 

"  She's  probably  very  proud  of  you  now." 

"  Of  course  she  is.  She'd  be  proud  anyway, 
whether  I  did  anything  or  not." 

"And  did  she  object  to  your  writing  for  the 
stage?" 

"  Oh,  no,  not  at  all.  I  think  she  rather  liked  that. 
You  know,  she  isn't  very  consistent.  That's  one 
of  her  most  beautiful  qualities.  I  told  you  she'd 
cut  her  Europe  short  to  see  the  piece." 

"  I  remember,"  Evelyn  replied,  quietly.  She 
thought  of  the  large  florid  woman  as  she  had 
appeared  in  the  box  that  night.  Mrs.  Thayer  had 
a  superabundance  of  mature  beauty,  an  air  of  being 
perfectly  at  ease,  of  mastery  over  the  situation,  a 
quizzical  look  in  the  eyes,  and  a  veiled  determination 
in  the  smiling  mouth. 

When  they  had  taken  seats  in  the  elevated  train, 
Thayer  lapsed  into  silence.  To  start  him  talking 
again,  Evelyn  asked,  "  Is  she  here  now,  your 
mother?" 

"  No,"  he  replied.  "  She's  gone  back.  Some 
friends  of  ours  are  going  to  spend  the  winter  in 
Florence,  and  they  persuaded  her  to  go.  If  she 
were  here,  I  should  ask  her  to  call  on  you." 


XXXVII. 

On  the  way  up-town,  in  the  intervals  of  her  talk 
with  the  dramatist,  Evelyn  tormented  herself  with 
the  question  whether  she  ought  to  have  asked 
Leonard  Thayer  to  dinner.  Would  he  think  her 
invitation  rather  forward?  Then  she  reflected  that 
she  and  Madge  had  already  taken  dinner  with  him 
at  that  Bohemian  restaurant,  and  she  felt  somewhat 
comforted.  She  envied  those  people  who  knew  just 
what  to  do  and  just  what  not  to  do,  and  who  never 
acted  on  impulse.  He  had  not  shown  surprise  on 
receiving  the  invitation;  but,  even  if  he  had  felt 
surprise,  he  would  have  concealed  it.  When  they 
reached  the  house,  if  he  had  said  he  was  sorry  but 
he  just  thought  of  an  engagement,  she  would  have 
been  relieved.  But  he  followed  her  with  an  air  of 
unconsciousness  of  his  surroundings,  apparently  ab- 
sorbed in  talk  as  they  walked  up  the  stairs.  She 
apologised  for  the  absence  of  an  elevator,  nervously 
reflecting  that  Mrs.  Barton  might  not  be  prepared 
to  minister  to  this  guest.  However,  Mrs.  Barton's 
dinners  were  usually  good  enough  for  any  one.  After 
all,  the  old  lady  was  a  great  comfort.  Evelyn  felt 
at  this  moment  completely  repaid  for  the  impulse 
in  Twenty-third  Street  that  had  brought  the  ac- 
tress to  the  apartment. 

Charity  received  them  at  the  door  and  conducted 
377 


278      *f»     A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

Thayer  into  the  drawing-room.  Evelyn  went  back 
to  the  kitchen,  where  she  found  Mrs.  Barton  in  a 
big  apron,  cooking  a  steak.  When  she  told  of  her 
guest,  Mrs.  Barton  exclaimed,  "  My  God ! " 

"  Now  tell  me  what  you  were  going  to  have?  " 
Evelyn  asked,  forcing  herself  to  be  patient,  and 
trying  not  to  appear  excited. 

"  Well,  now  —  there's  this  steak.  There's  plenty 
for  three,"  the  old  woman  explained,  "  an'  you 
know  I  ain't  no  hand  at  eating  meat.  In  fact,  I'd 
much  rather  go  without  it." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Evelyn,  laughing.  "  It  looks 
like  a  good  big  piece.  There'll  be  plenty  for  all 
of  us." 

"  Now,  I  did  think  of  smothering  it  in  onions," 
Mrs.  Barton  went  on,  ruefully. 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  you  didn't !  "  Evelyn  exclaimed. 
"  Do  you  want  me  to  be  discharged  from  the  com- 
pany ?  " 

"Well,  I've  never  seen  a  man  that  didn't  like 
steak  with  onions.  Now,  there  was  my  husband  — 
he'd  —  " 

"Oh,  you  dear  old  thing,"  Evelyn  broke  out, 
while  Charity  looked  dumbly  on,  "the  steak  will 
bum  if  you  don't  watch  it." 

Mrs.  Barton  gave  the  gridiron  a  quick  turn  in 
time  to  prevent  disaster. 

I*  Have  you  any  soup?  "  Evelyn  asked. 

"  Well,  I  hadn't  intended  to  put  any  on  the  table," 
Mrs.  Barton  replied,  and  before  she  could  go  on. 
Charity  broke  in: 

"Oh,  yes,  missy,  they's  plenty  of  soup  in  the 
closet.  They's  some  of  that  tomato  bisque  that  I 
made  yesterday  for  you  expressly.    There's  enough 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «©►      279 

left  over  for  five  people.  I  knew  it  would  keep, 
missy,  an'  so  I  made  a  lot  of  it." 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  very  extravagant,  Charity," 
said  Evelyn,  with  an  amused  glance  at  Mrs.  Barton. 
"  But  you've  saved  our  lives.  Now  let  us  see ;  to- 
mato bisque  soup,  steak." 

"  Pertaters  hashed  brown,  missy,"  Charity  added. 
"  You   always   likes   'em  that  way." 

"  Good !  "  Evelyn  exclaimed,  beginning  to  fed 
happy  again. 

"  And  some  of  those  French  peas,"  Mrs.  Barton 
cried,  resigning  the  steak  to  Charity. 

"  Canned !  "  said  Evelyn,  with  one  finger  held 
dubiously  at  her  lips. 

"  Well,  I'd  like  to  know  how  you're  goin'  to  git 
'em  any  other  way,  honey,  this  time  o'  year,"  Char- 
ity remonstrated. 

"  Well,  we'd  better  have  them.  Of  course,  we 
must  have  them.  They're  just  right.  And  now 
for  the  salad." 

Charity  chuckled,  "  Well,  I  guess  you'd  better 
leave  the  salad  to  me,  missy.  Ah'll  make  the  finest 
salad  you  ever  eat.  Jest  see  ef  I  don't.  An',  of 
co'se,  you  want  some  black  coffee  for  the  young 
gen'leman.  I  guess  you  ain't  never  teched  my  black 
coffee,  honey.  Miss  Livingstone  used  ter  say  they 
wasn't  ever  any  one  lahk  me  fer  black  coffee." 

"  I'll  break  my  rule  and  take  some  to-night.  Oh, 
Charity,  you're  an  angel !  "  Evelyn  exclaimed,  fer- 
vently. 

"  Well,  honey,  you  always  seem  to  me  kind  of 
a  beautiful  sperrit  yo'self,"  Charity  remarked,  with 
a  chuckle. 


28o     ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *f» 

"  Well,  then,  I  think  I'd  better  go  back  to  our 
guest,"  said  Evelyn,  starting  for  the  door. 

"  But,  darling,  you've  forgotten  the  dessert,"  Mrs. 
Barton  interposed. 

"  Oh!  "  Evelyn  looked  distressed  again,  "  We're 
so  used  to  going  without  any,  I —  " 

"  Well,  there's  one  thing  about  gen'lemen,"  said 
Charity,  "that  I've  observed  a  thousand  times. 
They  ain't  got  no  use  for  sweet  things." 

"  I  could  run  out  and  order  some  ice-cream," 
Mrs.  Barton  volunteered. 

"  No,  dear,"  said  Evelyn,  shaking  her  head, 
"  suppose  we  let  the  dessert  go." 

"  It  won't  take  me  five  minutes,"  Mrs.  Barton 
cried,  eagerly,  beginning  to  untie  her  apron;  but 
Evelyn  persisted  in  her  refusal.  "  Charity  will  have 
to  make  the  dinner  so  good  that  Mr.  Thayer  won't 
realise  we  haven't  had  any  dessert." 

"Well,  missy,  Charity'll  do  her  best,"  the  old 
negjess  responded. 

A  few  moments  later,  Evelyn  astonished  herself 
by  telling  Leonard  Thayer  all  about  her  arrange- 
ments for  the  dinner,  referring  even  to  the  omission 
of  the  ice-cream.  He  laughed  and  said  she  was 
giving  him  just  the  kind  of  dinner  he  ordered  when 
he  dined  at  the  club,  and  he  professed  a  deep  interest 
in  her  housekeeping.  He  grieved  over  Madge's 
absence,  and  he  made  joking  references  to  the  im- 
pression Madge  had  made  on  his  friend  Mills.  Then 
he  looked  over  the  apartment,  expressing  delight 
with  the  heavy  furniture  and  the  old-fashioned  pic- 
tures. When  Evelyn  spoke  of  the  Livingstones,  he 
looked  surprised. 

"Livingstone,  Livingstone?"  he  said,  with  his 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      281 

head  in  the  air.  Then  he  added,  "  Well,  by  Jove! 
Is  that  the  girl?  Why,  I  know  her.  She  nearly 
hounded  me  to  death  trying  to  persuade  me  to  en- 
gage her  for  Mathilde.  She  came  to  my  house  three 
times." 

When  Evelyn  told  what  she  knew  of  the  girl's 
history,  his  face  grew  serious.  "  It  seemed  to  me 
at  the  time  there  was  something  tragic  about  her, 
as  if  she  had  been  disappointed  or  something  like 
that." 

He  asked  where  she  was,  and  whether  she  knew 
the  name  of  the  company  she  was  travelling  with. 

"  Some  one  told  Madge  that  they  were  playing 
one-night  stands  chiefly,"  said  Evelyn. 

"  One-night  stands !  "  he  repeated,  blankly.  "  A 
fine  creature  like  that.  What  a  life!  How  does 
she  stand  it?"  For  several  moments  they  sat  in 
silence.  Then  he  asked,  "  I  suppose  you  have  been 
spared  those  hardships  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  Evelyn  replied,  "  we  had  six  contin- 
uous weeks  of  one-night  stands  last  season." 

"  It  must  have  been  ghastly." 

"  It  wasn't  very  pleasant,"  Evelyn  acknowledged, 
with  a  deprecatory  smile. 

"  But  how  did  you  stand  it?  Didn't  it  pull  you 
down  ?  " 

"  No.  Because  when  we  were  travelling  I  was 
sleeping.  Life  consisted  of  sleeping,  travelling,  and 
acting.  After  a  time  I  was  able  to  sleep  on  the 
trains.  I  often  didn't  know  even  the  names  of  the 
towns  where  we  played." 

He  looked  at  her  sympathetically.  "  I  think  that 
you  are  a  very  brave  woman,"  he  said,  with  quiet 
earnestness. 


282      «^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f»» 

"  Then  there  are  hundreds  of  brave  women,"  she 
replied,  smiHng,  "  who  go  through  that  experience 
year  after  year.  Some  companies,  you  know,  play 
one-night  stands  from  one  end  of  the  season  to 
the  other." 

He  sighed  heavily.  "  I'm  learning  new  things 
about  the  theatrical  profession  every  day.  I  used 
to  think  I  knew  it  all." 

"  Do  you  think  there's  very  much  to  know  ?  "  she 
asked,  quietly. 

"  Well,  there's  a  good  deal  in  getting  the  right 
point  of  view,  understanding  the  conditions.  Now 
I  used  to  look  upon  actors  as  rather  lazy,  rather 
idle  people.  You  make  me  think  that  they  are  the 
hardest-worked  people  in  the  world." 

"  Sometimes  the  work  is  easy  and  pleasant,"  said 
Evelyn,  "  and  sometimes  it  is  the  most  horrible 
drudgery." 

"  When  is  it  easy  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  quizzical 
smile. 

"  My  work  now  is.  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I 
weren't  earning  my  salary." 

"Oho!" 

"  You  help  to  make  it  easy  —  that  is,  your  play 
does.  It's  a  pleasure  for  an  actor  to  take  a  part  in 
a  piece  so  —  wdl,  so  intelligent  as  yours  —  where 
the  situations  are  so  human  and  the  lines  are  so 
natural  and  —  well,  so  easy  to  say." 

Thayer  bowed  extravagantly.  "  Thank  you,"  he 
said,  flushing  with  what  she  perceived  to  be  genuine 
pleasure. 

"  Now  last  year  and  the  year  before,"  Evelyn  went 
O".  "I  played  in  a  piece  where  the  lines  and  the 
situations  were  so  absurd  it  seemed  at  times  as  if 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      283 

I  couldn't  go  through  my  part.  When  I  reached  the 
stage  door,  I  often  felt  like  turning  back  and  never 
entering  a  theatre  again." 

Something  in  the  remark  made  Thayer  silent  for 
a  long  time.  "  I  suppose  that  every  one  who  has 
to  work  at  certain  times  feels  like  that,"  he  said. 
"  I  know  I  do.  If  I  didn't  force  myself  to  write 
every  morning,  I  believe  I  never  should  get  any- 
thing done." 

"  Don't  you  ever  zmnt  to  write?  "  Evelyn  asked, 
astonished,  and  Thayer  promptly  replied : 

"  Never ;  I  always  go  to  my  desk  with  loathing 
and  pitying  myself  because  I  have  to  be  there." 

"  But  you  don't  have  to  do  it,"  Evelyn  protested. 

"  I  have  to  keep  a  compact  with  myself.  That's 
the  point.  For  the  first  ten  minutes  I  sit  there, 
the  most  miserable  and  helpless  being  on  earth. 
Then  my  mind  begins  to  work,  and  I  make  a  start. 
When  once  the  start  is  made,  the  rest  is  usually 
easy."  He  smiled  at  the  look  of  astonishment  in 
her  face.  "  I  see  you  are  disappointed,"  he  went 
on. 

"  No,  it  seems  all  the  more  creditable,  your  doing 
that,  when  it  must  be  so  hard." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  throw  flowers  at  myself," 
he  exclaimed,  with  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"  And  you  always  seem  so  cheerful,"  Evelyn 
went  on. 

"  Except  when  I'm  working.  Then  I'm  —  well, 
if  you  could  know  what  the  servants  who  have  in- 
terrupted me  would  say !  " 

"  Everything's  hard,  isn't  it?  "  she  said,  thinking 
of  Oswald  Webb.  She  thought  she  knew  now  why 
he  had  not  done  more  with  his  talent.     It  was  be- 


284      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         <lp» 

cause  he  lacked  the  force  that  drove  Leonard  Thayer 
to  his  task  every  day,  no  matter  what  his  mood 
might  be. 

"  Everything  worth  while,"  he  agreed. 

"  But  don't  you,"  Evelyn  continued,  returning  to 
the  subject  of  Thayer's  work,  "  don't  you  ever  have 
what  people  call  inspiration  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  sadly:  "  It's  shocking,  and 
I  should  hate  to  have  it  known.  But  I  honestly 
believe  I  have  never  had  an  inspiration  in  my  life." 

Mrs.  Barton  presently  entered,  wearing  in  place 
of  her  old  house-dress  and  apron  a  blue  and  white 
frock  which  suited  her  pretty  grandmotherliness. 
Her  placid  face  gave  no  evidence  of  the  agitating 
preparations  she  had  been  making  for  the  dinner. 
When  Evelyn  presented  Leonard  Thayer,  he  greeted 
her  with  enthusiasm. 

"  You  don't  know  me,  but  I  know  yon''  he  said. 
"  You've  given  me  many  a  pleasant  hour." 

"  Well,  that's  very  kind  of  you  to  say  so,"  said 
Mrs.  Barton,  her  face  shining  with  pleasure. 

"  I  have  at  least  a  dozen  of  your  photographs," 
Thayer  went  on.  "  As  the  nurse  in  '  Romeo  and 
Juliet '  —  " 

"  Oh,  that  was  a  very  pleasant  engagement," 
Mrs.  Barton  interrupted.  "  It  was  when  Miss  Fran- 
ces Howard  played  Juliet  for  a  hundred  nights 
at  Sedley's  Theatre.  What  houses  we  did  have! 
And  such  nice  people  in  the  company !  " 

"And  then  I  have  you  as  Qaude  Melnotte's 
mother." 

Mrs.  Barton  began  to  laugh.  "  That  was  when 
I  was  with  that  terrible  Arthur  Littleton.  Dear  me, 
how  I  suffered  from  that  man !    I  never  cared  much 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      285 

for  the  part,  anyway;  it  always  seemed  a  silly 
play  to  me,  even  at  first  when  it  was  so  popular. 
But  Littleton !  "  Mrs.  Barton  threw  up  both  hands, 
"  He  was  a  dreadful  man  to  get  on  with.  Still 
he's  dead  now,  poor  man !  "  she  added,  as  if  this 
fact  in  some  way  excused  him. 

"  And  then  your  Mrs.  Candour,"  cried  Thayer. 
"  I've  always  said  you  were  the  best  Mrs.  Candour 
on  the  stage.  I  can't  endure  any  other  Mrs.  Can- 
dour." 

Mrs.  Barton  became  so  happy  that  she  broke 
into  reminiscence.  She  rarely  met  any  one  so  in- 
terested in  the  theatre  as  this  young  man,  and  she 
gave  him  confidences  that  only  his  sympathy  and 
enthusiasm  could  have  drawn  from  her.  At  the 
dinner-table  the  talk  was  so  lively  that  Evelyn  for- 
got to  worry  about  the  food.  A  few  minutes  after 
they  sat  down  she  realised  that  she  had  forgotten 
to  speak  of  the  claret,  and  on  the  instant  Charity 
entered  the  room,  with  a  large  bottle.  Leonard 
Thayer  smiled  at  Charity  and  praised  the  salad  in 
her  presence,  which  made  the  old  negress  chuckle 
with  delight.  When  coffee  was  reached,  he  and 
Mrs.  Barton  had  become,  as  he  said,  "  friends  for 
life."  He  declared  that  when  he  wrote  another 
play,  he'd  introduce  a  fat  part  for  her. 

"  Well,  if  you  do,  it'll  be  an  act  of  mercy,"  said 
Mrs.  Barton.  "  We  poor  old  heavy  women  aren't 
thought  of  by  the  dramatists  nowadays.  All  they 
care  for  is  youth,  good  looks,  and  pretty  dresses." 

Mrs.  Barton  stood  at  the  door  when  Evelyn  and 
Thayer  started  for  the  theatre.  Thayer  noticed 
that,  in  spite  of  the  cheeriness  of  her  smile,  her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears.     When  they  had  reached  the 


286     ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

street,  he  said,  "  What's  the  matter  with  the  old 
lady?    Isn't  she  happy ?  " 

"  She  is  always  like  that  when  she  sees  me  go 
away  at  night,"  Evelyn  explained.  "  It  makes  her 
fed  badly  because  she  isn't  going,  too." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Thayer,  and  for  several  moments  he 
did  not  speak  again.  Then  he  looked  at  her  quickly. 
"  Isn't  it  wonderful  how  they  all  love  it  ?  " 

Evelyn  nodded.  "  But  poor  Mrs.  Barton  needs 
the  money,  too." 

"  Would  it  make  you  unhappy  if  you  were  to  give 
it  up?"  he  asked,  as  they  neared  the  station. 

"That  would  depend,"  Evelyn  replied,  looking 
straight  ahead  and  feeling  uncomfortable. 

"On  what?" 

Evelyn  smiled  faintly.  "  On  practical  considera- 
tions." 

"  Ah!  "  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  amusement.  "  Not 
because  you  care  so  much  for  the  life?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  not  for  the  life,"  she  replied,  quickly, 
and  then  she  felt  uncomfortable  again.  "  Perhaps 
if  I  were  a  really  good  actress  I  should  feel  differ- 
ently." 

He  did  not  challenge  the  remark,  for  at  that 
moment  he  was  climbing  the  steep  steps  leading 
to  the  train.  When  they  had  reached  this  platform, 
he  looked  curiously  at  the  people  standing  there 
as  if  seeking  for  other  actors  on  their  way  to  their 
evening's  task.  "  I  really  must  see  if  I  can't  get 
something  for  Mrs.  Barton,"  he  said,  absently. 

At  the  stage  door  Evelyn  bade  him  good  night. 
**  I  suppose  you  aren't  going  to  be  in  front,  are  you  ?  " 
she  said,  and  he  shook  his  head.  "  But  I  may  come 
around  at  the  back  during  the  evening,"   he  ex- 


*^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»      287 

plained,  and  he  took  himself  off,  without  referring, 
as  she  had  expected  him  to  do,  to  his  enjoyment 
of  the  dinner.  But  she  entered  the  theatre  feeling 
happier  than  if  he  had  spoken  the  perfunctory  words. 
Madge  had  already  arrived,  and  was  standing  near 
her  dressing-room  reading  a  letter  under  a  gas-jet. 
When  Evelyn  told  Madge  of  her  guest,  the  soubrette 
pretended  to  be  indignant  that  Thayer  had  been 
invited  to  dine  while  she  was  away  from  home. 
"  Oh,  it's  all  very  well  to  say  you  asked  him  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment !  "  she  exclaimed,  satirically. 

After  the  second  act  Thayer  met  Madge  in  the 
wings,  and  professed  great  delight  on  being  ac- 
cused of  consenting  to  dine  in  the  little  apartment 
only  when  she  was  absent.  He  declared  that  in 
order  to  give  him  a  chance  to  prove  his  innocence 
she  must  ask  him  to  come  again.  She  refused,  how- 
ever, saying  that  she  wouldn't  give  him  a  chance 
to  slight  her  a  second  time,  and  making  him  laugh 
aloud  by  declaring  that  she'd  keep  him  informed  of 
her  future  absences  so  that  he  might  go  on  avoiding 
her. 

"There's  only  one  thing  you  can  do  to  make 
everything  all  right,"  she  said,  and  when  he  asked 
for  further  enlightenment,  she  added,  "  Write  a 
big  part  for  me  in  your  next  play." 

"  Why,  that's  exactly  what  I've  promised  to  do 
for  Mrs.  Barton,"  he  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  she's  been  making  up  to  you,  has  she? 
Well,  I'll  tell  her  what  I  think  of  her,  when  I  get 
home." 

Madge  ran  down  the  corridor  and  went  into 
Evelyn's  dressing-room.  "  Say,  I've  got  a  great 
idea !  "    She  looked  about  quickly  to  make  sure  that 


288      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *f» 

Evelyn  was  alone.  "  Why  don't  you  get  Thayer 
to  write  a  play  for  you?" 

"  Oh,  you  foolish  girl !  "  Evelyn  said,  touching 
her  hair  with  a  brush  and  studying  her  make-up  in 
the  blaze  of  electric  light  that  came  from  the  bulbs 
around  the  mirror. 

"  Now  look  here.  Don't  you  be  a  big  chump. 
Here's  the  chance  of  your  life.  They  say  everybody 
has  one  chance,  if  they  only  had  sense  enough  to  see 
it  when  it  was  coming.  Now  he  thinks  you're 
simply  great  as  Mathilde.  You  needn't  pretend 
that  he  doesn't.  That  way  of  yours  of  running 
yourself  down  makes  me  sick.  I  don't  see  how  you 
ever  got  a  job  in  this  business.  Well,  now,  I  tell 
you.  Get  him  to  write  a  play  around  some  other 
nice  sweet  girl  like  Mathilde.  Only  have  him  make 
her  more  cheerful,  don't  you  know,  and  let  things 
go  more  her  way.  The  successful  kind  of  girl,  I 
mean.  And,  of  course,  a  society  girl.  That  always 
catches  'em.  Besides,  it'll  give  you  a  chance  to 
wear  a  lot  of  stunning  clothes.  Oh,  say !  "  Madge 
paused  and  surveyed  Evelyn  with  deep  earnestness. 
"  I  think  you're  the  biggest  fool  not  to  work  the 
society  racket.  It  would  help  a  lot  with  a  girl  like 
you.  Think  of  all  it's  done  for  Amy  Leeds.  Why, 
she'd  never  be  anywhere  if  she  didn't  have  a  lot 
of  swell  friends.  That's  what  Nat  Howard  starred 
her  for,  and  think  of  all  the  money  she's  making." 

"  Oh,  Madge,"  said  Evelyn,  listlessly,  "  I  don't 
see  how  you  can  talk  such  nonsense." 

"It  ain*t  nonsense.  It's  simply  playing  your 
cards  right." 

"  I'm  not  clever  enough  to  star,  I  mean." 

"But  you  don't  have  to  be  clever  nowadays," 


♦f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     «^      289 

Madge  insisted,  irritably.  "  All  you  need  is  the 
chance  and  plenty  of  advertising.  Now,  Tliayer 
will  give  you  the  chance,  and,  if  the  play  is  boomed 
right,  and  you're  boomed  right,  too,  why,  your  for- 
tune's made.  They  say  that  Amy  Leeds  made  forty 
thousand  dollars  last  year  for  herself,  mind  you,  for 
herself,"  Madge  concluded,  in  shrill  soprano. 

Evelyn  shook  her  head,  refusing  to  formulate  any 
arguments. 

"If  you  haven't  sense  enough  to  work  that  little 
racket  for  yourself,  why,  I  believe  I'll  do  it  for 
you." 

Evelyn  looked  up,  startled. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Madge?  " 

"Why,  I'll  give  Thayer  a  little  hint,"  she  ex- 
plained, with  a  malicious  smile. 

Evelyn  turned  her  head  away.  "  Yes,  you'd  bet- 
ter," she  said,  wamingly. 

"  Honest.    I  mean  it." 

"Oh,  Madge!"  said  Evelyn,  with  impatience. 

"Well,  ta,  ta,"  said  the  girl,  starting  for  the 
door,  "  I'll  wait  till  the  great  author  and  I  get  to 
be  better  friends.  Perhaps  I'll  ask  him  to  write 
the  play  for  i?ie." 

Evelyn  dismissed  the  matter  from  her  mind,  as 
she  did  most  of  her  talk  with  Madge.  That  child 
was  always  suggesting  schemes;  she  said  that  if 
she  were  only  a  man  she'd  keep  a  dozen  enterprises 
going  at  once;  she  couldn't  understand  how  the 
young  fellows  in  the  company  could  be  satisfied 
with  the  lazy  lives  they  led ;  she  often  wished  that 
she  had  money  enough  to  start  some  business  that 
would  keep  her  busy  during  the  day.  She  envied  that 
clever  girl  Who  conducted  a  collar  and  cuff  business 


290      •^^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *f» 

in  Newark,  and  acted  in  New  York  at  the  same 
time.  For  a  few  days  she  said  Httle  to  Evelyn  about 
Leonard  Thayer;  but  during  the  next  few  weeks 
she  noticed  that  the  author  came  behind  the  scenes 
much  oftener  than  he  had  done  before.  Most 
authors,  she  had  observed,  appeared  regularly  at 
the  theatre  during  the  earlier  weeks  of  productions, 
and  then  came  only  occasionally  or  not  at  all. 
Leonard  Thayer  frequently  accompanied  Evelyn  and 
Madge  to  the  elevated  station,  and  would  have  gone 
as  far  as  the  flat  if  Evelyn  had  not  refused  to  let 
him  take  the  trouble. 

One  evening,  as  Madge  was  chatting  with  Thayer 
at  the  back  of  the  stage,  she  said,  carelessly,  "  I 
met  Amy  Leeds  on  the  street  to-day.  Isn't  she 
pretty  ?  " 

Thayer  nodded.  "  She  is  a  pretty  girl,"  he  said, 
carelessly. 

"  Do  you  know,"  Madge  went  on,  "  I  think  she's 
a  good  deal  like  Evelyn  —  Evelyn  Johnson,  I  mean," 
she  innocently  explained.  "  Not  that  their  faces  are 
alike.  Evelyn's  face  is  just  as  pretty,  and  has  a 
good  deal  more  character.  But  they're  a  good  deal 
alike  in  style.  I  don't  know  just  what  it  is  —  but 
it's  something  about  them." 

"  Simple,  you  mean,  don't  you  ?  "  Thayer  asked. 

"  Yes,  that's  it  —  simplicity.  Though  with  Amy 
Leeds,  goodness,  I  don't  think  she's  very  simple  on 
the  stage.  She  seems  to  me  awfully  affected.  But 
ain't  it  wonderful  the  success  she's  made?  And 
she  hasn't  half  the  talent  Evelyn  has.  The  way 
they  boom  people  now!  Honestly,  I  believe  that 
if  Evelyn  had  the  chances  that  girl's  had  she'd  be 


<f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»      291 

just  as  successful  —  more  successful,"  Madge  added, 
valiantly,  "  because  she's  so  much  better." 

If  Leonard  Thayer  divined  what  Madge  was 
driving  at,  he  did  not  betray  himself  even  to  her 
sharp  eyes.  "  There's  everything  in  getting  just 
the  right  combination,"  he  said,  non-committally. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  have  to  be  trained,"  Madge  went 
on,  thinking  of  her  talk  with  Evelyn,  "  and  getting 
the  right  kind  of  a  play."  She  kept  her  eyes  turned 
from  Thayer.     She  waited  alertly  for  him  to  speak. 

"  Plays  are  very  dubious  things,  Miss  Guernsey," 
said  Thayer,  and  for  an  instant  she  suspected  that 
he  was  drawing  her  out.  But  now  that  she  had 
begun  she  must  go  on.  Oh,  if  Evelyn  knew  what 
she  was  doing  she'd  kill  her!  Suddenly  she  felt 
her  courage  failing.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  not 
to  say  any  more  just  now.    A  hint  might  be  — 

"  It's  odd,  your  speaking  about  that,"  said  Thayer, 
in  the  light  voice  and  clear  diction  that  made  him 
at  moments  seem  to  Madge  slightly  effeminate. 
"  But  I've  had  a  sort  of  half-formulated  notion  like 
that  in  my  mind  for  several  weeks." 

"  About  Evelyn  ?  "  Madge  asked,  tremulously. 

"  About  Miss  Johnson  —  yes,"  and  in  her  joy 
Madge  forgave  what  she  might  under  other  cir- 
cumstances have  regarded  as  a  rebuke.  She  had 
an  impulse  to  rush  down  to  Evelyn's  dressing-room. 
It  quickly  gave  way  to  another  impulse. 

"  Oh,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't  ever  tell  her  that 
I  spoke  about  it." 

"Why  not?"  Thayer  asked,  with  a  smile  that 
again  made  her  suspect  he  had  divined  her  motives. 

"  Oh,  because  —  well,  because  she's  the  queerest 
thing,  that's  all.    And  she's  always  scolding  me  for 


292      «f»      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *f» 

being  so  —  well,  for  talking  too  much.  Now  I 
must  go  and  dress  for  the  next  act.  But  I  think  the 
idea  is  great,  don't  you?"  she  concluded,  hurrying 
away. 

For  a  week  Madge  waited,  hoping  that  Evelyn 
would  make  some  reference  to  a  result  of  her  talk 
with  Thayer.  As  she  heard  nothing,  she  again 
began  to  be  resentful.  She  said  to  herself  that  the 
only  thing  she  disliked  about  Evelyn  was  her  habit 
of  being  so  terribly  secretive.  Then  she  felt  re- 
morseful, and  decided  that  Thayer  had  not  spoken 
to  Evelyn  about  the  play.  Well,  she  had  done  all 
she  could.  But  in  this  consideration  there  was  poor 
comfort,  and  it  was  especially  hard  not  to  be  able 
even  to  mention  the  subject. 


XXXVIII. 

Now  that  the  New  York  success  of  "  Deception  " 
was  assured,  the  management  announced  a  pro- 
fessional matinee  so  that  the  actors  in  town  might 
see  it.  The  house  was  crowded,  and  all  the  per- 
formers did  their  best,  with  the  exception  of  Harry 
Davidson,  who  made  an  effort  to  show  how  indif- 
ferent he  could  be,  and  whose  slovenly  acting  was 
received  with  rapturous  admiration.  After  David- 
son, Miss  Gordon  won  the  greatest  success ;  she  was 
exhilarated  by  the  opportunity  of  displaying  her 
talent  before  her  fellow  players.  Evelyn,  probably 
on  account  of  the  fatigue  and  excitement  of  the  day 
before,  felt  nervous ;  but  Mrs.  Barton,  who  was  in 
the  audience,  afterwards  told  her  that  she  had  done 
surprisingly  well. 

At  any  rate,  she  received  an  offer  the  next  day 
from  Jason  James,  manager  of  the  Gotham  Theatre, 
to  play  leading  business  in  a  new  piece,  "  The  Giant's 
Cave,"  that  he  was  about  to  send  out  on  the  road. 
The  offer  pleased  her,  though  she  had  to  reply  at 
once  that  she  was  under  contract  for  the  run  of 
"  Deception."  She  had  never  before  had  the  satis- 
faction of  declining  so  good  a  chance.  She  showed 
the  manager's  letter  to  Madge,  who  remarked,  with, 
a  significant  smile,  "  Well,  I  guess  things  are  coming 
your  way  all  right." 

293 


^94     *^      ^  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

That  night,  on  meeting  Leonard  Thayer  in  the 
wings,  Madge  at  once  communicated  the  good  news. 
"  You'd  better  hurry  up  and  write  that  play  for 
Evelyn,"  she  said,  warningly.  "  If  you  don't,  some 
one  else  will  be  trying  to  get  her.  What's  been 
the  matter,  anyway?"  she  asked,  feeling  that  now 
she  could  take  a  much  bolder  tone  with  him.  She 
guessed  that  after  a  little  while  those  people  who 
thought  Evelyn  never  would  do  much  on  the  stage 
would  feel  pretty  cheap.  In  her  happiness  in  her 
friend's  success,  Madge  forgot  that  she  had  herself 
been  one  of  the  doubters. 

"  You  mustn't  think  I've  forgotten  about  that 
project,"  said  Thayer,  good-humouredly.  He  placed 
his  hand  on  the  back  of  his  head.    "  It's  still  here." 

Madge  threw  forward  her  elbow,  letting  the  tips 
of  her  fingers  rest  on  her  forehead.  "  Well,  can't 
you  let  it  work  out  here?  "  she  said,  with  burlesque 
seriousness. 

"  I  have  a  feeling  that  it  is  working  in  that  direc- 
tion. Miss  Guernsey,"  Thayer  replied,  and  they  both 
laughed. 

"  I've  been  doing  a  good  deal  of  worrying  about 
you,"  Madge  remarked,  starting  away. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Guernsey,"  he  called  after  her. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said,  hesitating. 

"Fm  glad  you  spoke  about  that  little  matter. 
I  know  James,  and  I  happen  to  know  there's  an 
old  woman's  part  in  that  piece.  I'll  tackle  him  to- 
morrow for  Mrs.  Barton." 

"  Oh,  you  —  you  angel !  "  Madge  exclaimed,  kiss- 
ing both  hands  to  him. 

"  Perhaps  you'd  better  not  say  anything  to  Miss 


«(p»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      *f»      295 

Johnson  or  Mrs.  Barton,  either,  till  I  know  whether 
the  part  is  filled." 

"  All  right,"  Madge  agreed. 

The  next  afternoon  Mrs.  Barton  received  a  note 
sent  from  Jason  James  by  a  messenger,  offering 
her  the  engagement.  After  reading  it,  she  burst 
into  tears.  Both  Evelyn  and  Madge  happened  to 
be  at  home  at  the  time,  and  rejoiced  in  the  good 
news. 

"  But  I'm  sorry  we're  going  to  lose  you,"  said 
Evelyn,  and  Mrs.  Barton's  tears  began  to  flow  faster. 

"  Oh,  you  can  get  along  without  me,  darling," 
she  said.  "  I've  known  all  along  you  didn't  really 
need  me.  But  I  was  only  too  glad  of  the  chance  to 
stay." 

Both  Evelyn  and  Madge  protested  that  they  had 
needed  her,  and  that  when  she  returned  she  must 
come  back  to  the  apartment,  provided  that,  of 
course,  they  were  still  in  town.  When  Madge  ex- 
plained how  the  engagement  had  been  secured,  Mrs. 
Barton  at  once  wrote  Leonard  Thayer  a  letter  of 
appreciation.  "  I'll  send  him  one  of  my  first  pho- 
tographs," she  said  to  Evelyn,  "  the  one  as  Celia, 
that  I  had  taken  years  ago,  before  I  went  into  old 
parts.  Perhaps  that'll  please  him.  He  can  add  it 
to  his  collection." 

After  her  second  talk  with  Leonard  Thayer  con- 
cerning his  writing  a  play  for  Evelyn,  Madge 
Guernsey  expected  soon  to  hear  that  he  had  made 
a  start.  But  for  more  than  a  week,  though  she 
saw  Thayer  several  times,  he  did  not  refer  to  the 
piece.  She  felt  disgusted ;  those  literary  men  must 
be  awfully  lazy.  Still,  she  consoled  herself,  there 
was  a  chance  that  Thayer  might  be  preparing  some- 


296     ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         <f» 

thing  in  secret;  she  had  heard  that  writers  often 
felt  superstitious  about  discussing  their  work  while 
they  were  doing  it.  If  Thayer  did  write  a  play 
for  Evelyn,  of  course,  she  reflected,  he  would  have 
to  provide  a  good  part  for  her. 

For  several  nights  the  author  did  not  appear  at 
the  theatre,  and  Madge  wondered  if  his  absence 
could  mean  that  he  was  hard  at  work.  She  remem- 
bered his  saying  that  he  had  the  habit  of  writing 
in  the  morning.  When,  finally,  she  met  him  in  the 
wings,  she  at  once  asked  him  what  he  had  been 
doing  with  himself. 

"  Will  you  promise  not  to  tell  ?  "  he  asked,  smil- 
ing knowingly  into  her  face. 

Madge  looked  at  him  with  deep  injury  in  her 
eyes.     "  As  if  I  ever  told  anything !  " 

"  Well,  I've  been  blocking  out  a  new  comedy." 

Madge  clasped  her  hands.     "  For  Evelyn  ?  '* 

"  Well,  perhaps,"  he  replied,  conservatively. 

"  Oh,  you  dear !  "  she  exclaimed,  and  she  made 
a  movement  as  if  to  kiss  him.  Then  she  checked 
herself.    "  I'm  so  afraid  of  you  I  shouldn't  dare." 

"  I'm  disappointed,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"  Well,  aren't  you  going  to  tell  me  about  it?  " 

"  You'll  be  disappointed,  too.     It's  farcical." 

"  Oh !  "  Madge  exclaimed,  her  face  growing  se- 
rious. 

"  But  not  too  farcical,  you  know,"  he  went  on, 
whimsically.  "  Ever  since  this  piece  caught  on, 
they've  been  urging  me  to  do  something  cheerful. 
They  say  that's  the  surest  way  of  making  big  money. 
You  see,  I'm  growing  commercial." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Madge,  with  practical 
decision.     "  I'm  commercial  myself.     Make  all  the 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      297 

money  you  can,  that's  what  I  beHeve.  But  Evelyn 
never  can  do  farce.  Never  in  the  world,"  Madge 
concluded,  hopelessly. 

"  Ah,  but  her  part  will  be  the  least  farcical  of 
all.    It  will  be  light  comedy." 

"  Society  ?  "  Madge  asked,  acutely.  "  Real,  swag- 
ger people?    New  York?  " 

Thayer  nodded,  his  eyes  shining  with  amuse- 
ment. "  It's  about  a  New  York  girl,  very  rich  and 
important,  who  takes  it  into  her  head  to  go  on  the 
stage." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Madge,  in  a  long  sigh.  "  I  see  what 
you're  going  to  do.  The  actors  in  the  piece  will 
be  the  farcical  people.  Now  I  know  what  you've 
been  watching  us  for.    They'll  simply  hate  you." 

At  that  moment  Evelyn  came  forward  in  her 
costume  for  the  third  act.  "  What  has  Madge  been 
saying?  "  she  asked. 

Thayer  appealed  to  Madge.  "  Shall  I  tell  her? 
Now,  I'm  going  to  see  if  you  can  keep  a  secret." 

"  Oh,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't  make  a  secret  of 
anything  so  important  as  that.  I  think  it  would  be 
awful  not  to  tell  her.  He's  — "  Madge  clapped 
her  hand  over  her  mouth. 

"  It's  just  a  little  confidence  between  Miss  Guern- 
sey and  me,"  Thayer  explained. 

"  About  you,"  Madge  added. 

Evelyn  flushed  beneath  her  make-up. 

"  Oh,  do  tell  her,"  Madge  whispered. 

"  Now  this  is  a  hold-up,"  Thayer  protested,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  Of  course,  if  you  don't  want  to  tell  me,"  said 
Evelyn,  catching  up  her  dress  and  starting  to  walk 
away. 


298      «^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

"  I'll  tell  you  after  the  performance,"  Thayer  re- 
marked, to  tease  Madge. 

He  had  no  chance  to  say  more,  for  Evelyn  was 
walking  to  her  place  on  the  stage,  and  he  did  not  see 
her  again  until  she  had  dressed  for  the  street.  He 
met  her  as  she  was  walking  with  Madge  down  the 
corridor.  When  he  found  that  Madge  had  kept 
her  word,  he  gave  her  an  approving  nod.  Then 
he  told  Evelyn  of  his  plans.  She  listened  without 
comment,  her  face  growing  a  shade  paler,  while 
they  walked  toward  the  elevated  station.  He  was 
outlining  the  situation  to  her  as  they  climbed  the 
steep  steps,  and  they  were  all  so  absorbed  that  they 
did  not  stop  to  discuss  whether  he  should  go  up- 
town. They  had  reached  Fiftieth  Street  before  he 
had  finished  his  outline. 

"  Oh,  it's  splendid.  But  I  never  could  do  Alice 
Hastings,  never,"  said  Evelyn. 

"There!  I  knew  you'd  say  that,"  Madge  ex- 
claimed, with  disgust  in  her  tone. 

"  I  couldn't  sustain  that  emotional  scene  in  the 
second  act,  and  I  never  could  do  that  wild  dance 
at  the  close  of  the  third  act." 

"Oh,  I  guess  we  could  manage  all  that,"  said 
Thayer,  lightly. 

"  You'll  have  to  be  coached  for  the  dance,  of 
course,"  Madge  remarked,  with  decision.  "  And  it 
will  be  dreadfully  hard  to  do  it  right,  to  put  just 
the  right  snap  into  it.  Why,  they  say  that  Amy 
Leeds  was  coached  in  every  bit  of  business  that  she 
does  in  her  new  piece,  and  she  had  to  be  taught 
how  to  say  a  lot  of  those  hard  speeches,  too.  I  only 
wish  I  had  the  chance." 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      299 

"  You'd  better  write  the  part  for  Miss  Guernsey," 
said  Evelyn,  smiHng  at  the  dramatist. 

Madge  shook  her  head.  "  Jenny  Ballou  is  the 
part  for  me.  She  is  just  my  style.  I  guess  I  know 
where  you  got  her/'  Madge  exclaimed,  with  a  pout. 
"  I  can  see  she's  just  your  idea  of  a  tomboy  of  an 
actress,  ain't  she?  "  she  went  on,  addressing  Thayer. 

"  Well,  I  intend  to  try  to  make  her  one  of  the 
most  lovable  characters  in  the  piece." 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  Madge  remarked,  with  the  air 
of  refusing  to  be  won  over  by  flattery.  "  She  is  the 
kind  people  like  to  laugh  at  and  guy  and  all  that. 
But  she  ain't  the  kind  they  respect  very  much.  But 
never  mind.  I'll  be  mighty  glad  to  play  her,  if  I 
get  the  chance." 

"  Well,  you  shall  have  the  part  if  you  want  it," 
said  Thayer,  and  Madge  looked  at  him  with  a 
radiance  that  again  conveyed  a  desire  to  embrace 
him.  Then  the  dramatist  turned  to  Evelyn.  "  You 
really  think  the  scheme  is  worth  working  out  ?  " 

Evelyn  waited  for  a  few  moments  before  replying. 
"  It  won't  be  as  fine  a  play  as  *  Deception,' "  she 
said,  "  or  as  strong.  But  it  ought  to  be  even  more 
popular." 

Madge  held  up  the  finger  of  prophecy.  "You 
may  make  twenty  thousand  a  year!"  she  said  to 
Evelyn. 

They  did  not  discuss  the  play  again  for  several 
days.  Then,  one  night  at  the  theatre,  Thayer  men- 
tioned to  Evelyn  that  he  had  struck  a  hard  place. 
"  She's  rebelled  against  me,"  he  explained. 

"  Who  has  ?  "  Evelyn  asked. 

"Alice  Hastings.  I'm  trying  to  make  her  act 
in  one  way,  and  she  refuses.    What  shall  I  do  ?  " 


300     ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «#► 

"Let  her  alone  for  awhile,"  Evelyn  replied, 
promptly.    "  Then  perhaps  she'll  come  round" 

**  But  suppose  she  doesn't  ?  " 

"  Then  give  her  her  own  way." 

"  And  spoil  the  scene?  "  he  asked. 

"  If  you  don't,  she'll  spoil  the  scene,"  Evelyn  in- 
sisted. "  I've  played  scenes  like  that  where  I  could 
feel  that  the  character  I  was  playing  was  doing 
things  simply  because  the  dramatist  made  her  do 
them,  not  because  it  was  natural  and  right  that  she 
should  do  them.  I  always  feel  uneasy  in  them,  and 
they  never  go  right." 

Thayer  looked  at  her  for  a  long  time.  Then  he 
sighed  heavily.  "  You  are  right,"  he  said,  and  he 
added,  with  a  smile,  "  You  are  always  right." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not,"  Evelyn  contradicted.  "  I 
wish  I  were.    Don't  trust  my  judgment." 

Thayer  bowed  with  exaggerated  respect.  "  Your 
instinct  in  these  matters  is  always  true.  I  never 
talk  my  work  over  with  you  without  getting  some 
practical  help." 

She  did  not  see  him  again  for  several  days ;  but 
she  received  a  note  from  him  saying  that  he  had 
gone  into  the  country  where  he  could  work  quietly. 
One  evening  he  appeared  again  in  the  theatre.  She 
met  him  as  she  was  leaving  the  stage  after  the  first 
act. 

"  Well,  I've  done  it,"  he  said.  "  I've  given  Alice 
her  own  way.     She  made  me." 

"  I  hope  you  won't  be  sorry,"  Evelyn  replied. 

He  shook  his  head  dubiously.  "  It's  better  for 
the  piece,"  he  went  on,  "  but  it  weakens  the  part." 

"  Oh !  "  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  disappointment  that 
he  at  once  observed. 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ♦f*      301 

"  Do  you  think  I've  made  a  mistake?  "  he  asked, 
anxiously. 

"  That  was  just  a  little  selfish  feeling,"  she  con- 
fessed. "  I  believe  you've  done  right.  So  many 
plays  are  spoiled  because  one  part  is  developed  out 
of  proportion  to  the  rest." 

"  But  they  won't  like  it,"  he  went  on,  nodding  in 
the  direction  of  the  manager's  office. 

"  Don't  you  think  you've  reached  the  place  now 
where  you  can  do  what  you  please?  "  Evelyn  asked, 
and  he  covered  his  mouth  with  one  hand. 

"  That's  treason.  If  you  don't  look  out  they'll 
say  my  work  is  like  Ibsen.  Then  I'll  never  have 
another  play  produced." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  should  care  what  they  said 
as  long  as  I  felt  I  had  done  the  best  I  could." 

He  laughed  and  told  her  that  those  were  noble 
sentiments.  "  I'll  try  to  live  up  to  them  if  you'll 
stand  by  me." 

"  But  I  have  no  influence." 

"You  haven't?  The  prospective  star?"  he  ex- 
claimed, and  he  noticed  with  surprise  that  she  could 
not  meet  his  glance. 

"  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  be  a  star,"  she  said, 
shaking  her  head.  "  If  you  want  your  play  to  suc- 
ceed you'd  better  get  some  one  else  to  take  the  part." 

Leonard  Thayer  frequently  called  for  Evelyn  in 
the  afternoon,  and  together  they  walked  to  places 
of  interest  in  the  city.  From  nine  o'clock  till  twelve 
in  the  morning  he  devoted  himself  to  work ;  during 
the  rest  of  the  day  he  was  free  to  roam  and  to  study 
and  read.  He  confessed  to  Evelyn  that  he  had  no 
social  conscience,  and  when  his  mother  was  out 
of  the  city  he  saw  very  little  of  people.     Several  of 


302      *^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *f» 

their  excursions  were  taken  in  the  East  Side,  which 
Thayer's  imagination  made  wonderfully  picturesque. 
"  The  know-it-all  literary  critics  say  that  there  is  no 
romance  in  New  York,"  he  remarked  to  her  one  day 
as  they  crossed  the  Bowery.  "  Why,  the  place  is  full 
of  it."  On  another  occasion,  as  they  were  walking 
along  Rivington  Street,  he  said :  *'  When  I  first 
came  back  from  Europe  I  used  to  prowl  along  these 
places  because  they  reminded  me  just  a  little  of 
some  of  the  musty  old  cities  on  the  Continent.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  this  and  for  the  sake  of  the  Mater, 
too,  of  course,  I  think  I  should  have  pulled  up  sticks, 
and  become  one  of  those  gloomy  expatriated  Amer- 
icans that  you  see  over  there." 

"  You  are  beginning  to  make  me  almost  like 
New  York,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  of  course  you'll  like  it.  You'll  love  it  by 
and  by.  But  I  don't  see  how  people  who  know  only 
what  they  call  the  'nice  side'  of  New  York  life 
ever  can  like  it.  It  is  so  terribly  prosaic,  in  spite 
of  all  the  interesting  things  that  are  happening. 
What  could  be  more  stupefying  than  the  blocks  upon 
blocks  of  brownstone  houses  up-town  ?  " 

"  When  I  first  came  to  New  York  I  couldn't  be- 
lieve that  there  was  any  home  life  here,"  Evelyn 
said,  and  then  she  felt  conscious,  as  she  often  did, 
in  Leonard  Thayer's  presence,  of  having  made  a 
very  stupid  and  provincial  remark. 

He  laughed  and  replied,  apparently  taking  her  re- 
mark seriously,  "  But  there  really  is  plenty  of  it  — 
the  real  old  article,  as  real  as  the  kind  they  have  in 
New  England,  only  —  only  less  strenuous."  After 
a  brief  silence,  he  went  on :  "I  should  think  that 
all  novelists  would  want  to  come  here.     There's  so 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^     303 

much  material,  so  much  Hfe  of  all  kinds,  and  such  a 
fine  background!  But  most  of  them,"  he  went  on 
with  a  sig-h,  "  prefer  to  write  about  things  thou- 
sands of  miles  away.  When  I  was  in  Cambridge  I 
thought  that  all  life  had  been  put  into  books.  Have- 
n't you  ever  heard  about  the  undergraduate  who 
said  he  disliked  the  country;  he  preferred  reading 
about  Nature?  So  many  writers  I  know  are  just 
like  that,  though  they  don't  know  it.  They've 
spoiled  themselves  by  reading  too  much.  The 
deeper  they  go  into  books  the  further  they  get  away 
from  life.  Now,  it  always  seems  to  me  that  Oswald 
Webb  is  one  of  these." 

"  But  he  —  his  case  is  different,  it's  so  peculiar," 
she  reinonstrated,  quietly. 

"  Yes,  I  know  about  it.  That  is,  I  know  what 
they  say  and  what  I  observed  myself  when  I  was 
in  Boston.  Yet  he  is  the  very  one  that  first  warned 
me  against  too  much  reading.  He  pointed  out  the 
danger  to  me  when  I  was  in  college." 

"  Did  he  really  ?  "  said  Evelyn.  Then  she  won- 
dered why  she  should  have  been  surprised. 

"  He  used  to  hold  himself  up  to  me  as  a  warning," 
Thayer  laughed.  "  Webb  takes  himself  very  seri- 
ously, you  know.  I  sometimes  think  if  he  took  him- 
self less  seriously  he  would  have  accomplished  more.> 
He  would  have  worked  harder  and  bemoaned  his  lost 
opportunities  less.     Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,"  she  replied, 
hastily. 

"  Of  course  he's  a  good  fellow  and  all  that.  There 
never  was  a  better  fellow  in  the  world  or  a  kinder 
friend.     But  he  always  seemed  to  me  to  lack  — 


304      *#*      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *^ 

well  —  the  quality  that  makes  men  get  there  in 
spite  of  everything." 

Evelyn  recalled  this  conversation  many  times. 
Oswald  Webb  and  Leonard  Thayer  were  so  different, 
and  yet  in  many  ways  they  seemed  alike.  There 
was  a  buoyancy  in  Thayer's  temperament  that  Webb 
lacked.  Once  she  asked  herself  which  was  the 
broader  of  the  two,  and  she  had  to  acknowledge, 
almost  against  her  will,  that  the  advantage  lay  with 
the  younger  man.  Thayer's  interest  in  life  stimu- 
lated her  own.  He  often  made  her  appreciate 
things  she  had  never  observed  before;  his  insight 
into  details  surprised  her,  and  his  sense  of  beauty 
made  her  feel  ashamed.  In  Central  Park,  where 
they  sometimes  walked  late  in  the  afternoon,  he 
called  her  attention  to  the  purple  haze  in  the  trees 
and  to  the  varying  tints  of  the  atmosphere,  as  the 
winter  advanced  toward  spring,  and  they  would 
watch  the  changing  lights  in  the  sunset  as  they  shot 
among  the  bare  boughs.  Once  she  asked  him  why 
he  so  rarely  described  natural  scenery  in  his  stories, 
and  he  told  her  he  had  tried  to  describe  it  and  had 
failed ;  he  never  could  express  what  he  saw.  "  And 
after  all,"  he  added,  "  what  people  like  to  read  about 
is  other  people,  with  the  same  interests,  and  joys,  and 
griefs  as  their  own."  A  moment  later,  he  went  on : 
"  Yet  scenery  sometimes  seems  to  me  more  personal 
than  people.  I  mean  in  its  effects:  it  tells  one 
thing  to  one  observer  and  another  thing  to  another. 
Now,  the  great  charm  to  me  about  writing  a  play  is 
that  it  appeals  to  the  eye  as  well  as  the  understand- 
ing, and  of  course  a  story  appeals  only  to  the  under- 
standing. That's  why  plays  are  so  popular;  they 
reach  every  one,  and  when  a  man  writes  a  successful 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^     305 

play  he  has  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  he 
reaches  the  heart  of  the  whole  public.  So  many 
things  in  novels,  you  know,  are  lost  on  most  readers. 
That  used  to  dishearten  me  very  much  at  first  — 
until  Oswald  Webb  said  something  about  it  that 
I  shall  never  forget." 

"  What  was  that  ?  "  Evelyn  asked. 

"  I'd  written  him  a  letter  about  it  just  after 
'  Social  Parasites  '  appeared.  I  said  people  were 
praising  the  very  things  in  the  story  that  I  didn't 
like,  that  I  wished  I  hadn't  written,  and  ignoring 
the  little  touches  that  were  to  me  the  most  precious 
of  all.  He  wrote  back  that  nothing  was  ever  really 
lost  in  a  story ;  he  said  that  every  one  of  my  points 
would  find  a  response  from  some  reader,  if  it  had 
truth  in  it.    That  was  very  comforting." 

"  Yes,  readers  must  be  like  audiences,"  Evelyn 
remarked.  ",  Some  audiences  laugh  at  speeches 
that  other  audiences  take  perfectly  seriously  or  miss 
the  point  of  altogether." 

"  After  all,"  said  Thayer,  "  every  one  of  us  who 
is  trying  to  do  artistic  work  has  just  one  purpose 
in  mind;  so  the  laws  that  govern  one  art  must 
govern  the  others.  And  just  as  art  is  the  same 
everywhere,  so  the  principles  of  beauty  remain  fixed. 
But  the  secret  of  acting,  after  all,  lies  in  the  nature 
of  the  artist.  If  he  is  sincere,  and  if  his  nature  is 
fine  enough  to  perceive  and  to  reflect  the  truth,  then 
he  will  do  good  work.  In  the  more  complex  arts, 
like  writing  and  painting,  insincerity  is  often  able 
to  hide  itself  and  to  delude  people.  In  fact,  I  some- 
times think  that  there  are  comparatively  few  who 
can  unerringly  distinguish  between  what  is  affected 
and  what  is  true."     He  had  been  looking  straight 


3o6     «^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f» 

ahead,  and  now  he  suddenly  turned  to  Evelyn  and 
smiled.  "  I  don't  often  let  myself  rhapsodise  like 
that.    I  dare  say  that  I  am  not  very  lucid." 

"  Oh,  I  think  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  replied. 
"  I've  thought  of  it  so  often  in  my  own  work. 
Acting  ought,  of  course,  to  be  impersonal;  that  is, 
we  ought  to  act  outside  ourselves  as  much  as  we  can. 
But  what  we  really  do  is  to  give  expression  to  our 
own  natures." 

"  True,  true !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  And  if  you  don't 
mind  my  saying  so,"  he  went  on,  "  that's  what  makes 
your  own  art  so  delightful." 

Evelyn  flushed  violently.  "  Ah,  but  I  have  no  art, 
really." 

"  Indeed  you  have,"  Thayer  insisted,  his  face 
growing  earnest.  "  Your  acting  is  so  simple,  so 
true  —  it  is  —  " 

Evelyn  held  up  one  hand.  "  Please  don't,"  she 
urged. 

He  laughed  at  her  confusion.  "  I  intend  to  stick 
to  my  opinion !  "  he  exclaimed. 


XXXIX. 

"  Deception  "  continued  to  be  given  in  New 
York  till  the  first  of  March.  The  critics  declared 
that  the  run  was  remarkable,  and  it  proved  that  a 
drama  depending  for  its  success  chiefly  on  literary- 
merit,  on  brilliancy  of  dialogue,  could  succeed  in 
New  York.  Evelyn  was  sorry  that  her  life  in  the 
apartment  had  come  to  an  end;  but  she  did  not 
feel  the  dread  of  the  road  that  she  had  once  felt; 
she  and  Madge  would  still  live  together  and  keep 
each  other  from  being  homesick. 

From  New  York  the  company  went  to  Buffalo, 
and  then  travelled  west.  The  season  was  to  close 
with  a  four  weeks'  engagement  in  Boston,  beginning 
about  the  middle  of  April.  The  long  New  York 
run  made  the  piece  successful  on  the  road,  and  it 
was  everywhere  praised.  Evelyn  disliked  travelling 
again,  but  Madge,  who  was  secretly  tired  of  the 
monotony  of  life  in  the  apartment,  greatly  enjoyed 
it.  Gradually  a  coldness  developed  between  Madge 
and  Evelyn.  Madge  resented  Evelyn's  reticence;  it 
piqued  her  curiosity  and  it  also  puzzled  her.  She 
had  always  maintained  that  Evelyn  was  "  deep ;  " 
now  she  seemed  deeper  than  she  had  ever  been. 
Besides,  Evelyn  had  grown  quiet  and  serious  again, 
as  she  had  been  during  the  last  six  months  of  her 
tour  the  season  before.     Yet  there  was  apparently 

307 


3o8      ^     A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

no  reason  why  she  should  be  serious.  Her  perform- 
ance was  well  received  by  the  audiences.  The 
papers,  too,  praised  her,  and  some  of  them  called 
attention  to  the  improvement  over  her  acting  of  the 
year  before,  which  did  not  altogether  please  her. 
Unlike  Madge,  she  found  no  attraction  in  the  life 
at  the  hotels ;  but  she  busied  herself  with  reading  and 
with  her  correspondence.  Madge  often  wondered 
why  Evelyn  spent  so  much  time  in  writing  and  who 
received  all  the  letters  that  she  sent  away.  Oswald 
Webb  continued  to  forward  books  to  her,  and  she 
had  to  keep  him  informed  of  her  changes  in  address. 
He  had  not  advanced  very  rapidly  on  his  novel,  he 
wrote,  and  he  was  so  dissatisfied  with  what  he  had 
done  that  he  would  rather  not  send  her  any  more 
of  it  at  present.  Perhaps  by  the  time  she  reached 
Boston  he  should  have  finished  it,  and  then  she 
might  look  it  over  at  her  leisure,  if  she  liked. 

One  night  while  they  were  playing  in  Detroit, 
Helen  Gordon  rushed  excitedly  into  Evelyn's 
dressing-room;  she  held  in  her  hand  a  telegram. 
"  At  last,  at  last,"  she  cried,  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  which  Madge  had  just  left  to  go  on 
the  stage,  and  waving  the  paper  high  in  the  air, 
"  I've  got  it,  I've  got  it." 

"  Got  what  ?  "  Evelyn  asked,  carefully  shading 
the  rouge  of  her  right  cheek,  and  watching  Miss 
Gordon's  image  in  the  mirror. 

"  Why,  the  divorce.  I  expected  to  get  it  weeks 
ago;  but  that  man  fought  it  so.  Just  let  me  give 
you  one  good  hug  to  relieve  my  feelings.  There! 
Now,  Evelyn  Johnson,  you're  a  witness.  Just  you 
listen  to  what  I'm  going  to  say.  Not  if  I  live  to  be 
a  hundred,  not  if  I  live  to  be  a  hundred,  will  I  ever 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»      309 

marry  again.  There,  now,  do  you  hear  that  ?  And 
if  I  ever  do  marry,"  Miss  Gordon  concluded,  opening 
the  door,  "  why,  you  can  say  I've  gone  raving 
crazy." 

From  Detroit  the  company  started  on  a  tour  of 
the  smaller  cities,  in  each  of  which  they  played  for 
one  or  two,  and  occasionally  three,  nights.  Several 
of  the  older  actors  complained  bitterly  of  the  hard- 
ship, saying  that  a  piece  like  "  Deception,"  on  its 
first  tour,  ought  to  have  been  given  in  the  big  cities 
only,  and  speaking  scornfully  of  the  Syndicate.  The 
audiences,  too,  grew  smaller,  though  the  business 
still  remained  satisfactory.  "  There's  no  use  sending 
out  a  piece  like  this  on  *  one-night  stands,'  "  said 
Madge,  one  night  in  Sandusky,  as  she  walked  with 
Evelyn  to  the  theatre,  '*  unless  it's  got  a  star  with 
a  big  name." 

Evelyn  nodded,  walking  rapidly  to  avoid  being 
late.  The  stage^manager  had  warned  the  company 
to  arrive  fifteen  minutes  earlier  than  the  usual  time, 
as  they  should  have  to  rush  the  piece  in  order  to 
make  the  night  train. 

"  I  guess  Leonard  Thayer  will  be  mad  enough 
when  he  hears  how  the  receipts  are  falling  off," 
Madge  exclaimed. 

Evelyn  said  nothing.  Madge  had  already  ob- 
served that  Evelyn  became  strangely  reticent  when- 
ever the  dramatist's  name  was  mentioned. 

"  I  wonder  if  he's  finished  the  new  piece  yet  ?  " 
Madge  went  on.  "  It's  taking  him  a  mighty  long 
time  to  write  it." 

"  He's  working  on  the  last  act,"  Evelyn  remarked, 
as  they  turned  into  the  dark  alley  that  led  to  the 
theatre. 


3IO     ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis 


"  Well,  you  mig-ht  have  told  me!  " 

"  I  only  heard  to-day,  Madge.  I  had  a  letter  from 
him  this  morning." 

"Is  he  going  to  send  you  the  manuscript?" 
Madge  asked,  acutely. 

"  He  says  he  may  come  out  to  read  it." 

Madge  stopped,  as  she  was  about  to  push  open 
the  door  leading  to  the  stage.    "  Here  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  Wherever  we  are  when  he  finishes  the  act." 

Madge  pressed  heavily  against  the  door.  "  While 
we're  on  one-night  stands !  "  Then  she  added : 
"  Well,  it  will  do  him  a  lot  of  good  to  see  what 
the  theatrical  business  is  really  like." 

Before  the  performance  had  concluded,  every  one 
in  the  company  knew  that  Leonard  Thayer  was 
coming  out  with  the  manuscript  of  his  new  play. 
The  actors  were  greatly  excited;  several  hoped 
that  the  play  would  contain  parts  which  they  could 
secure;  others  expressed  a  fear  that  Thayer  would 
be  dissatisfied  with  the  way  "  Deception  "  was  pre- 
sented on  the  road.  "  The  scenery's  getting  pretty 
shabby,"  said  one  of  them,  "  and  some  of  us  have 
been  falling  into  some  pretty  bad  tricks.  The  road 
don't  ever  do  a  performance  any  good,  and  one-night 
stands,  where  you're  thinking  of  catching  trains 
all  the  time,  are  sure  to  make  your  work  ragged. 
Johnson's  the  only  one  of  us  that  hasn't  let  down  a 
bit  since  we  started  out." 

Thayer  reached  the  company  at  Toledo,  where 
"  Deception "  was  to  be  given  for  three  nights. 
Evelyn  received  his  card  at  her  hotel,  a  few  moments 
after  Madge  had  gone  out  for  a  bicycle  ride.  When 
she  went  down  to  the  ugly  parlour,  with  its  faded 
carpet   and   hangings,    she   was   reminded   of   her 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      *f^      311 

meeting  with  him  at  the  boarding-house  in  Twenty- 
third  Street.  He  hurried  forward,  extending  his 
hand,  his  face  shining.  From  the  pocket  of  his  coat, 
she  saw  a  blue-covered  manuscript  protruding. 

"  It's  good  to  see  you  again,"  he  said,  looking 
into  her  face. 

"  It  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  were  back  in  New 
York,"  Evelyn  replied,  flushing. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  that's  a  compliment." 

"  It's  the  greatest  compliment  an  actor  can  give 
any  one,"  Evelyn  explained. 

She  sat  on  the  couch  near  the  window,  and  he 
drew  up  a  chair.  "What  a  queer  place  this  is!" 
he  said,  looking  about  the  room. 

"  Toledo  isn't  strong  on  hotels,"  Evelyn  re- 
marked, with  a  smile.  "  But  we're  here  for  so  short 
a  time  it  really  doesn't  matter  very  seriously." 

Thayer  frowned.  "  But  can't  they  do  better  than 
this?" 

"  There  is  a  better  hotel.  At  any  rate,  it's  more 
expensive  and  larger.  But  this  is  more  convenient 
to  the  theatre,  and  it's  popular  with  theatrical 
people." 

Thayer  sighed.  "  Well,  I'm  more  fortunate  than 
you  are.     I'm  staying  at  the  club." 

"  Then  you  aren't  going  to  travel  with  us?  "  Eve- 
lyn asked,  trying  to  maintain  an  air  purely  casual. 

"  That  depends,"  he  replied,  mysteriously,  and 
he  drew  the  manuscript  from  his  pocket.  He  passed 
it  to  her  with  a  ceremonious  bow. 

Evelyn  quickly  opened  the  first  page  of  the  first 
act.  "  How  many  characters?  "  she  asked,  glancing 
quickly  over  the  list. 

**  Twenty-three,"  he  promptly  replied. 


312      «^     A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f» 

"  Expensive  company,"  she  remarked.  "  Think 
of  all  the  salaries." 

"  Oh,  I  did  think  of  all  that,"  he  lamented.  "  But 
I  needed  them  all.  It  simply  couldn't  be  limited. 
At  first  I  tried  to  be  economical,  and  then,  to  tell 
the  truth,  I  forgot  all  about  economy." 

"  Of  course,  if  they  are  really  important,"  Evelyn 
conceded. 

"  They  fill  out  the  picture.  In  the  third  act,  the 
ballroom  scene,  I  had  to  have  a  good  many  people, 
you  know." 

"  Perhaps  some  of  them  can  be  cut  out  on  the 
road,"  said  Evelyn,  with  a  smile.  Then  she  glanced 
into  his  face.    "  Are  you  going  to  read  it  to  me?  " 

Thayer  threw  up  his  hands.  "  I  haven't  the 
courage.  I  should  be  too  conscious  when  I  reached 
the  places  that  I  know  aren't  right.  I  want  you  to 
read  it  yourself  and  tell  me  what  you  think." 

For  a  half^hour  they  talked  about  the  new  piece, 
about  Evelyn's  experiences  since  leaving  New  York, 
and  about  the  way  "  Deception  "  had  been  received 
on  the  road.  "  I've  read  all  the  notices,"  he  said, 
with  a  gloomy  smile. 

"  And  haven't  you  been  satisfied  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  They've  been  flat- 
tering enough;  but  they're  so  incompetent  and 
vulgar,  most  of  them.  I  wonder  where  they  get 
their  critics." 

"  Some  of  them  must  be  the  little  boys  that  come 
to  interview  us,"  Evelyn  replied.  "  They  are  nice 
boys,  but  they  haven't  had  many  opportunities  to 
learn.  Sometimes  they  comeTand  sit  for  an  hour, 
expecting  me  to  entertain  them.    Then  they  go  away 


♦  A  Daughter  of  Thespis     ^     313 

and  they  either  don't  write  anything  at  all  or  they 
write  something  that  makes  me  feel  very  silly." 

"  I  will  write  an  interview  for  you,"  he  said,  jok- 
ingly. "  You  can  keep  it  on  hand  and  pass  it  out 
whenever  the  little  boys  come  to  call."  He  looked 
at  her  intently  for  a  few  moments.  "  What  do  you 
do  in  these  places  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  out  of  the 
window,  with  an  air  of  aloofness  that  made  Evelyn 
smile.     "  How  do  you  fill  up  your  days  ?  " 

"  We  often  travel,  you  know.  Then,  when  we 
stay  for  a  few  days  in  one  place,  I  walk  in  the 
morning,  and  in  the  afternoon  I  read  a  little,  and 
write  letters,  and  before  dinner  I  take  a  nap.  I 
never  miss  the  nap." 

Thayer  rose  guiltily.  "  And  at  this  moment  you 
ought  to  be  getting  your  sleep?  " 

Evelyn  shook  her  head.  "  Oh,  no,  I'm  not  such 
a  slave  to  habit  as  that.  If  you  were  to  go  now, 
I  should  begin  to  read  your  play." 

"  Enough !  "  Thayer  laughed,  throwing  back 
his  shoulders.  "  Away  I  go !  I  wish  we  could  have 
dinner  together,"  he  said,  wistfully.  "  But  Saun- 
derson  sent  me  a  rather  peremptory  invitation  to 
dine  with  him  and  talk  business."  He  held  out 
his  hand.  "  I  shall  see  you  after  the  first  act." 
He  hesitated,  apparently  trying  to  think  of  some- 
thing he  had  forgotten.  "  Tell  Miss  Guernsey  I'm 
sorry  not  to  have  seen  her,"  he  added,  and  taking 
his  hat,  he  shook  hands  with  Evelyn  a  second  time 
and  departed. 

Evelyn  went  at  once  to  her  room  and,  loosening 
her  hair,  she  lay  on  the  bed  and  began  to  read. 
She  had  just  reached  the  last  scene  of  the  first  act 
when  Madge  burst  in,  her  face  flushed  from  her 


314     ^     A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f» 

exercise.  "  He's  here,"  she  cried,  and  noticing  the 
manuscript  in  Evelyn's  hand,  she  went  on :  "  Ah, 
then  you've  seen  him.  So  that's  the  piece,  is  it  ?  I 
caught  a  ghmpse  of  him  as  I  was  riding  along  the 
street.  Lovely  roads  for  wheeling  here.  I  don't 
think  he  recognised  me.  He  was  walking  along  with 
that  kind  of  a  guying  look  on  his  face,  you  know. 
He's  just  a  little  superior,  don't  you  think  so?  " 

"  No,"  said  Evelyn,  beginning  to  read  again. 

"  Well,  you  needn't  be  so  hateful  about  it.  How 
is  the  piece,  anyway?  " 

**  I'll  give  you  this  act  in  a  minute.  You'll  like 
it,"  Evelyn  added,  significantly. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  by  that  you  don't  like  your  own 
part.  Well,  I  guess  I'd  better  go  into  my  room  and 
wash  up  a  bit  first.    What  does  he  call  it  ?  " 

"  He  hasn't  given  it  a  title  yet." 

A  few  moments  later  Madge  returned,  looking 
fresh  and  trig.  She  threw  herself  across  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  letting  her  head  rest  on  Evelyn's  knees. 
Evelyn  was  still  reading.  Madge  took  up  the  manu- 
script of  the  first  act,  and  for  several  moments 
neither  spoke.  Then  Madge  exclaimed :  "  Well, 
my  goodness,  he  —  "  She  looked  at  Evelyn  and 
checked  herself.  For  more  than  an  hour  they  read 
in  silence.  Then  Evelyn  rose,  sighed  heavily,  and, 
walking  toward  the  bureau,  she  leaned  forward,  with 
both  hands  on  the  white  marble  covering,  and  looked 
at  herself  for  a  long  time.     Madge  watched  her. 

"  Seeing  yourself  in  the  part?  " 

Evelyn  turned  away.  "I  was  wondering  if  I 
looked  as  tired  as  I  feel." 

Madge  raised  one  arm.  "  Now  don't  say  a  word 
till  I  finish  this  act." 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^     315 

Evelyn  sat  in  one  of  the  soiled  plush  chairs  and 
began  to  brush  her  hair.  Finally,  Madge  threw 
down  the  manuscripts  and  rose  dramatically. 

"  It's  a  great  play !  It's  a  great  part  for  me.  But 
the  best  part  is  the  man's  part.     You  ain't  in  it." 

"  That's  exactly  what  I  think,"  Evelyn  remarked. 

"  Well,  it  seems  to  me  he's  given  you  a  pretty 
hard  throw-down !  "  Madge  exclaimed,  indignantly. 
"  Why  "  —  the  soubrette  looked  vaguely  around  the 
room,  with  distress  in  her  face  —  "  it's  entirely  dif- 
ferent from  what  I  thought  it  was  going  to  be.  He 
roasts  the  swells  just  as  much  as  he  does  the  actors. 
But  ain't  he  clever,  though!  And  what  splendid 
character  parts!  Why,  every  part  is  good  —  even 
the  bits." 

"  Yes,  he  has  learned  to  make  good  use  of  his 
material,"  Evelyn  agreed. 

"  I  suppose  that  old  comedy  woman  —  Mrs. 
Vernon,  is  it?  —  I  suppose  Mrs.  Barton  will  get 
that." 

"  Yes,  it  will  be  a  splendid  part  for  her.  The 
best  chance  she's  had  for  years." 

"  Well,  it's  a  Harry  Davidson  piece  all  right. 
If  Harry  gets  it,  it'll  make  him.  Perhaps  Saunder- 
son  will  send  him  out  as  a  star."  Madge  hesitated. 
"  Would  you  play  Alice,  as  it  is  now,  I  mean?  " 

"  Of  course  I  would,"  Evelyn  replied,  and  Madge 
looked  disgusted. 

"  You  have  no  more  idea  of  getting  along! "  she 
said,  scornfully.  "  I  don't  see  how  you  ever  made 
a  living  in  this  business.  Now  if  I  was  in  your 
boots,  if  I  knew  Leonard  Thayer  as  well  as  you  do, 
I'd  make  him  write  up  that  part  and  put  a  lot  more 


3i6     ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

into  it.  Some  of  the  speeches  that  are  given  to  that 
other  girl  —  " 

"  Jenny  Ballou  ?  "  Evelyn  asked,  smiling. 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  Jenny  Ballou.  That  Sarah 
Crawford.    Now  you  ought  to  have  some  of  those." 

"  And  hurt  the  piece,"  Evelyn  went  on. 

"Oh,  hurt  your  grandmother!  However,  if  you 
can't  take  care  of  your  own  interests,  all  right.  I'm 
satisfied  with  what  I  shall  get.  If  they  only  let  me 
play  Jenny  Ballou  as  I  think  it  ought  to  be  played 
I'll  make  the  hit  of  my  life.  Perhaps  Saundie  will 
send  me  out  with  a  company  one  of  these  days,  if 
I  can  get  the  right  kind  of  a  play."  Madge  threw 
out  her  right  arm  and  assumed  a  dramatic  attitude. 
"  I  tell  you  who  could  play  Alice  —  Belle  Living- 
stone." 

Evelyn  looked  surprised.  For  a  few  moments 
she  did  not  speak.  "  So  she  could,"  she  finally 
agreed. 

That  night  at  the  theatre  Leonard  Thayer  met 
Evelyn  and  Madge  between  the  first  and  the  second 
acts.  He  laughed  in  his  most  boisterous  manner 
when  they  told  him  of  their  appreciation  of  his 
play,  and  he  looked  at  Madge  with  quizzical  toler- 
ance, when  she  exclaimed : 

"  But  I  do  think  you  were  mean  to  Alice  Hastings. 
You  might  have  made  her  part  the  best  in  the  piece." 

"  Ah,  Miss  Johnson  and  I  understand  about  that, 
don't  we,  Miss  Johnson?" 

"  I  think  so,"  Evelyn  replied,  with  confusion  in 
her  face. 

"  Well,  you  two  are  the  queerest  things,"  Madge 
went  on.  "  Only  remember !  "  —  she  turned  to  walk 
to  her  dressing-room,  giving  Thayer  a  coquettish 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      317 

glance  over  her  shoulder  —  "as  Jenny  Ballou,  I 
shall  expect  to  be  featured." 

"  Oh,  you'll  be  the  whole  show !  "  Thayer  cried 
after  her.  Then  he  turned  to  Evelyn,  his  face  grow- 
ing serious.  "  I'm  honestly  delighted  that  you  think 
so  well  of  the  play,  I'm  going  to  leave  it  with 
Saunderson.  He  has  an  idea  it  may  do  for  David- 
son. He's  going  to  make  a  star  of  Davidson  if 
he  can  get  what  he  calls  '  the  right  vehicle.'  " 

"  We  spoke  of  that,"  said  Evelyn,  taking  a  deep 
breath.  She  was  asking  herself  if  she  were  really 
disappointed  with  Alice  Hastings?  Had  she  been 
so  foolish  as  to  allow  herself  —  ? 

"  I've  been  so  set  up  over  the  way  the  piece  wrote 
itself  I'm  going  to  start  in  on  another,"  Thayer 
went  on,  and  he  would  have  begun  an  outline  of  the 
plot  if  she  had  not  been  obliged  to  hurry  away. 
"  Oh,  it  will  keep,"  he  said,  when  she  had  apologised. 

"  Perhaps  you'll  let  me  come  and  talk  it  over  with 
you  to-morrow." 

Thayer  travelled  with  the  company  for  a  week. 
In  Columbus,  where  they  went  on  leaving  Toledo, 
he  read  his  comedy  to  Saunderson,  who  then  gave 
it  to  Davidson  to  read,  and,  on  receiving  Davidson's 
approval,  accepted  it  at  once.  The  silent  feud  that 
had  continued  between  the  actor  and  the  dramatist 
since  the  rehearsals  of  "  Deception  "  ended  in  the 
actor's  delight  in  the  piece  and  the  chief  part. 
Manager,  actor,  and  author  began  to  have  daily 
conferences  with  regard  to  preparations  for  the  new 
production.  They  agreed  that  no  soubrette  could 
be  secured  better  suited  to  Jenny  Ballou  than  Madge 
Guernsey,  and  Saunderson  proposed  that  Miss  John- 
son be  offered  the  part  of  Alice.     "  I  think  we'd 


3i8      «^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f» 

better  not  decide  on  that  for  awhile,"  said  Thayer, 
and  both  actor  and  manager  looked  surprised,  assert- 
ing that  Miss  Johnson  was  "  reliable  "  and  would 
be  sure  to  "  make  good."  Besides,  she  had  done  so 
well  in  "  Deception  "  that  she'd  probably  had  offers 
from  other  managers  already.  "  Well,  we'll  decide 
on  that  in  a  few  days,"  said  Thayer,  with  an 
authority  he  could  not  have  assumed  a  year  before. 
That  afternoon,  when  he  went  out  for  a  long  tramp 
into  the  country  with  Evelyn,  he  told  her  of  the 
talk. 

"  I  don't  really  want  you  to  play  Alice,"  he  said, 
and  she  turned  her  head  away,  without  speaking. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  act  at  all  next  season,"  he 
went  on,  quietly,  but  with  the  quizzical  smile  that 
she  had  so  often  noticed  on  his  face  of  late.  When 
it  disappeared,  however,  his  eyes  had  grown  very 
serious.  "  I  want  you  to  help  a  poor  devil  of  a 
playwright  with  his  plays.  I  want  you  to  help  him 
make  something  of  himself." 

"  I  don't  recognise  the  description,"  she  said, 
with  a  faint  smile.  She  knew  from  the  feeling  in 
her  lips  that  her  face  had  grown  pale. 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  isn't  a  very  good  description. 
I'm  not  really  poor,  and  if  my  new  comedy  makes 
a  success  I  shall  have  a  very  neat  addition  to  my 
already  adequate  income.  I've  never  felt  quite  so 
rich  as  I  do  at  this  moment.  I've  never  realised 
what  a  delightful  thing  it  was  to  tell  some  one  I 
care  for  that  I  have  money  enough  to  make  her 
comfortable.  I'm  certain  I  could  make  you  more 
comfortable  in  New  York  than  you've  been  in  some 
of  these  Ohio  hotels." 

Evelyn  had  begun   to  walk   more  rapidly,   and 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      *#►      319 

Leonard  Thayer  had  fallen  slightly  behind  her. 
"  Won't  you  please  take  it  a  little  easier  ?  "  he  said, 
pretending  to  be  out  of  breath. 

She  slackened  her  pace,  and  he  saw  that  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Evelyn,"  he  said,  taking 
the  tips  of  her  fingers  in  his  hand,  "  I've  been  in 
love  with  you  ever  since  I've  known  you." 

"Since  those  rehearsals?"  she  asked,  surprised 
at  the  question  and  at  the  sound  of  her  own  voice, 
which  was  full  and  clear.  She  had  feared  it  might 
break. 

"  No,  I  didn't  know  you  then,  and  I  didn't  like 
you  very  much  then,  either.    I  —  " 

"  Oh,  I  knew  that,"  she  interposed. 

"You  did?"  he  said,  in  surprise.  "Well,  did 
you  know  —  "  He  hesitated.  "  Do  you  know  —  " 
The  clasp  of  his  hand  tightened. 

"  Don't,  please  don't,"  she  said,  gently. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  exclaimed,  and  he 
drew  away  from  her. 

"  I  don't  think  I'm  managing  this  very  well,"  he 
said,  and  they  both  laughed.  A  little  tear  rolled 
gently  down  on  her  cheek. 

"  Evelyn,  I  want  you  to  marry  me.  I  want  you 
to  be  my  wife  soon.  I  want  you  to  give  up  this 
existence  and  just  —  well,  just  be  happy,  that  is,  if 
you  can  be  happy  with  me.  That's  what  I'm  trying 
to  say.    Will  you,  Evelyn  ?  " 

For  a  long  time  they  walked  on  in  silence.  He 
did  not  dare  to  speak  for  fear  of  saying  in  his  nerv- 
ousness something  that  would  sound  flippant. 
Finally,  he  saw  that  she  was  too  upset  to  trust 
herself  to  reply. 

"  Don't  say  anything,  now,"  'he  went  on,  "  only 


320      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

believe,  do  believe  that  I  —  that  I  love  you  ven- 
dearly." 

To  his  astonishment,  she  stopped.  "  Let  us  go 
back,"  she  said.  "  I'm  afraid  I've  walked  too 
far.  I  shall  be  tired  out  for  the  performance  to- 
night." 

He  at  once  became  solicitous.  He  wished  to  stop 
at  the  nearest  house  and  try  to  engage  some  sort 
of  vehicle  to  drive  her  to  the  hotel ;  but  she  refused. 
He  asked  her  to  take  his  arm,  and  she  shook  her 
head.  He  looked  bewildered.  "  I  hope  I  haven't 
hurt  you,"  he  remarked,  at  last. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  replied.    "  I'm  just  —  I  think  I'm 
a  little  nervous  and  hysterical.     I  shall  be  well  in 
a  few  minutes."     She  began  to  smile  and  the  look" 
of  concern  deepened  in  his  eyes.     "  I'm  really  all 
right  again,"  she  insisted. 

"  Oh ! "  he  said,  and  they  lapsed  into  silence. 
After  a  long  interval  Evelyn  began  to  speak.  "  I've 
been  very  much  upset  during  the  past  year  or  two," 
she  said,  "  and  I  haven't  the  self-control  that  I  used 
to  have.  I'm  often  foolish  and  I  feel  ashamed.  So 
please  forgive  me  if  I  seemed  —  if  I  seemed  —  " 

"  Oh,  there  isn't  anything  to  forgive,"  he  said, 
gently. 

"  And  please  don't  bring  up  this  subject  again 
for  awhile.  Let  me  think  about  it  till  —  well,  till 
the  year's  work  is  over.  That  won't  be  so  very 
long  now,"  she  concluded,  breathlessly. 

"  You  may  have  all  the  time  you  like,"  he  said, 
giving  her  a  rapturous  look,  and  they  walked  along 
together  slowly  and  contentedly. 


XL. 


The  company  arrived  in  Boston  on  a  rainy  Sun- 
day night.  Evelyn  had  asked  Mrs.  Bowen  to  engage 
rooms  for  herself  and  Madge  at  the  Mount  Vernon 
Street  boarding-house  w^here  Mrs.  Bowen  lived,  and 
she  knew  that  she  could  not  reach  the  place  by 
street-car.  So  she  decided  to  be  extravagant,  and 
she  told  Madge  that  in  honour  of  her  return  to 
Boston  they  should  drive  up  in  a  cab.  Mrs,  Bowen 
was  eagerly  waiting  for  them,  and  hurried  with 
them  to  the  rooms  which  she  had  had  prepared  for 
them.  On  the  table,  in  the  front  room  that  looked 
out  on  the  street  and  gave  a  view  of  part  of  the 
Common,  Evelyn  noticed  a  bunch  of  roses. 

"  Oh,  how  good  of  you !  "  she  said  to  Mrs.  Bowen. 
She  bent  over  to  smell  the  flowers  and  discovered  a 
card  nestling  in  the  leaves.  She  glanced  at  it, 
flushed,  and  thrust  it  into  a  pocket. 

"  Yes,  wasn't  it  good  of  me?  "  said  Mrs.  Bowen, 
with  a  queer  little  inflection. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Bowen  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  I  think,  from  his  letters.  He  won't  get 
back  from  his  Western  trip  till  September."  Mrs. 
Bowen  sighed.  "  Sometimes  I  wish  there  weren't 
any  business  in  the  world." 

Evelyn  did  not  see  Oswald  Webb  until  the  fol- 
lowing Tuesday.     The  play  had  been  well  received 

321 


322      «^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis 


the  night  before,  and  the  audience  and  the  critics 
had  been  generous  to  her  as  a  Bostonian. 

"  I  thought  I  wouldn't  come  till  it  was  over. 
I  thought  I'd  let  you  have  your  triumph  first,"  he 
explained,  with  a  smile. 

"  You  didn't  send  the  novel,"  she  said,  reproach- 
fully.    "Have  you  brought  it?" 

He  shook  his  head.     "  I've  destroyed  it." 

"  Destroyed  it  ?  "  She  looked  at  him  in  conster- 
nation. 

He  nodded.    "  I'm  sure  I  did  right." 

"  Why  did  you  do  it?    Were  you  discouraged?  " 

**  No,  but  I  had  an  awakening."  he  said,  laugh- 
ing at  his  own  mysteriousness.  Then  as  she  con- 
tinued looking  at  him  with  bewilderment  in  her 
face,  he  went  on,  "  I  wonder  if  you  noticed  it  ?  " 

"Noticed  it?" 

"  I  mean  the  story.  I  wonder  if  you  noticed  in 
those  first  chapters  what  I  discovered  the  other 
day." 

A  look  of  understanding  appeared  in  her  face. 

"  Ah,  you  did  notice?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  you  mean  what  I  mean,"  she 
said.    "  Won't  you  tell  me  what  you  mean?  " 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "  That's  what  I  came 
for,"  he  replied  more  seriously.  Then  he  looked 
down  at  his  hands.  "  I  had  nearly  finished  it,"  he 
said,  after  a  little  pause. 

"  How  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  it." 

"  I'm  sure  it's  all  right,  and  I'm  glad  I've  done 
it." 

"  You're  glad  you've  destroyed  it?  " 

"  Well,  I  didn't  mean  that.    But  I  am  glad  that 


«#►         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     ^      2'^3 

I  destroyed  it,  too.  I  was  bound  to  do  that.  I 
meant  that  I  was  glad  I'd  written  it." 

"  Why  should  you  be  glad  to  have  so  much  labour 
thrown  away  ?  " 

"  Because  I  don't  think  it  was  thrown  away.  It 
was  a  preparation,  a  relief,  a  lesson,  a  discovery  — 
a  great  many  things." 

She  looked  mystified  again.  "  I  don't  under- 
stand." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  you  will  understand,"  he  said, 
with  a  nervous  laugh.  "  Some  people  wouldn't,  but 
you  will."  He  looked  at  her  and  laughed  the  nerv- 
ous laugh  again.  "  Didn't  you  suspect  that  the 
story  was  all  about  myself?  "  he  asked,  suddenly. 

She  sat  back  in  her  seat  and  drew  a  long  breath. 
"Oh,  is  that  it?" 

"Didn't  you?" 

"I  —  I  think  I  half  suspected.'* 

"  And  I  didn't  suspect  till  I'd  nearly  reached 
the  end.  I  found  that  I  was  plucking  out  my  heart's 
secrets  and  putting  them  into  my  novel.  I  suppose 
it's  natural  for  a  man  to  do  that.  They  say  you 
can't  help  doing  it  with  your  first  book,  and  that 
novel  was  like  a  first  book  after  my  —  my  —  my 
emancipation." 

"Your  emancipation?"  she  repeated. 

"  Yes,  my  literary  emancipation,"  he  explained, 
with  a  laugh. 

"  You  mean  that  in  those  twelve  years  when  you 
weren't  writing  stories  you'd  stored  up  experiences 
and  they  came  out  unconsciously." 

"  Exactly.    I  knew  you'd  understand." 

"  I  should  think  that  would  be  natural,"  she  said, 
thoughtfully. 


324     ^      ^  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

"  I  don't  know  how  much  you've  heard  about  my 
life  —  my  married  life,"  he  went  on,  rapidly,  as  if 
speaking  under  excitement.  "  But  even  if  you 
haven't  heard  things  —  I  know  how  people  talk  — 
you  must  have  inferred.  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing about  it  —  as  much  as  I  ought  to  tell.  It 
wasn't  the  happiest  of  lives;  and  perhaps  it  was 
my  fault ;  sometimes  I  think  it  was.  But  it  —  it 
was  a  mistake  from  the  beginning.  At  the  time  I 
thought  I  was  in  love;  I  am  sure  of  that.  But  I 
resolved  never  to  let  her  know  that  I  had  been  mis- 
taken. I  gave  myself  up  to  her.  I  gave  every- 
thing I  could  give,  even  my  ambition,  the  most 
precious  of  all  and  the  hardest  to  give  up.  The 
first  two  years  of  my  life  —  while  I  was  waking 
up  to  what  I  had  done  —  oh,  they  maddened  me.  I 
hadn't  learned  patience  then.  I  wrote  my  second 
book;  you  think  it's  morbid;  I  don't  see  how  it 
could  help  being  morbid.  But  she  was  jealous  even 
of  my  work.  Then  I  gave  up  writing  to  please 
her.  But  I  had  to  do  something;  so  I  read  philo- 
sophical works,  and  I  argued  and  argued  with  her 
till  her  beliefs  were  gone,  and  to  her  dying  day 
she  never  forgave  me." 

For  a  moment  he  sat  without  speaking.  Then 
he  said,  "  I've  told  you  this  because  —  because  I'm 
in  love  with  you.  I  didn't  know  it  myself  —  until 
I  found  it  out  from  the  story.  It  may  seem  very 
foolish.  It  was  just  as  if  some  other  self,  buried 
away  down  beneath  consciousness,  had  told  me. 
Do  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  " 

She  bowed  her  head.  "  I  think  I  have  felt  somer 
thing  like  that." 

*'  Well,  it's  this  second  self,"  he  went  on,  with 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      *f»      325 

a  smile,  "  that  writes  my  stories  for  me.  It's  very- 
much  wiser  and  more  subtle  than  my  first  self.  Oh, 
it  told  me  a  great  many  things  about  myself.  But 
the  most  important  thing  it  told  me  was  that  I 
loved  you." 

"  You  don't  really  expect  me  to  accept  an  offer 
made  on  such  flimsy  authority  as  that,  do  you  ?  " 
she  asked,  with  an  amused  look  and  with  a  feeling 
of  wonder  that  she  should  be  able  to  make  a  joke 
on  such  an  occasion. 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  expect  anything,"  he  replied, 
seriously.  Then  he  added  more  cheerfully,  "  My 
second  self  hasn't  told  me  that  you  are  in  love 
with  me." 

She  turned  her  head  away. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  expect  you  to  worship  an  old  fellow 
like  me,"  he  went  on.  "  Why,  I'm  nearly  forty-five. 
I've  passed  the  intense  age.  But  I  think  I  care 
for  you  with  something  more  than  a  boy's  love. 
You  seem  to  me  all  that  a  woman  should  be.  I'm 
very  selfish  in  my  love  —  I  confess  that ;  but  I 
suppose  all  men  are." 

*'  I  wish  you  hadn't  spoken  to  me  in  this  way," 
she  said.    "  I'm  so  sorry." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  don't  care  for  me  ? " 

"  I  think  I  do  care  for  you,"  she  replied,  dropping 
her  eyes  again.    "  I  like  you  and  I  —  I  respect  you." 

"  Thank  you  for  that.  It's  something,"  he  said, 
"though  it's  rather  non-committal.  But  I  can't 
expect  you  to  care  for  me  as  I  care  for  you.  That 
would  be  too  much." 

"  I  don't  care  for  you  in  that  way,"  said  Eve- 
lyn, feeling  that  she  must  make  her  meaning  clear 
at  any  cost. 


2i6      ^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         -f* 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  can't  marry  me?"  he 
asked,  gently. 

She  bowed,  and  said,  "  Yes." 

"  But  I  don't  want  you  to  marry  me  now.  I'll 
wait.  There  is  no  hurry.  That  is,  there  is  no  hurry 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  I  love  you  so  much  that 
I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  your  being  out  in  the 
world,  in  such  a  hard  world  as  yours  is,  too.  I 
have  always  seen  that  you  weren't  fit  for  that.  You 
were  made  to  be  happy,  and  you  were  made  to  help 
others  to  be  happy,  too.  I  can't  tell  you  how  precious 
you  seem  to  me,  how  good  you  are  with  your  right 
understanding  and  your  patience.  Don't  you  think 
I  know  all  you  have  been  through,  all  you've  had 
to  contend  against?  It's  that  that  has  made  you 
so  dear  to  me." 

"  Oh,  don't,  please  don't.  I  don't  deserve  it. 
I  know  how  weak  I've  been." 

"  No,  you  haven't  been  weak,"  he  went  on,  quietly. 
"  You've  been  a  woman,  that's  all,  and  you've  had 
to  face  the  world  like  a  man.  We  are  made  to 
meet  these  trials  —  most  men.  Those  that  don't 
meet  them  and  overcome  them  are  sure  to  have 
others  just  as  bad.  Through  all  that  you've  had  to 
do,  you've  kept  womanly  and  true." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  she  said,  "  I've  failed  where  others 
have  succeeded.  I'm  not  half  so  —  half  what  you 
think." 

"  But  you  do  care  for  me  a  little,  don't  you  ?  I 
—  thought  —  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  she  said.  "  I've  done  wrong. 
I  must  have  made  you  think  so.  That  was  because 
I  didn't  know  my  own  mind." 

"  But  it's  a  woman's  privilege  to   change  her 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»      327 

mind  as  often  as  she  likes,"  he  interposed,  with  a 
smile. 

"  It  was  on  account  of  that  —  on  account  of  the 
talk  I  had  with  Mrs.  Webb,"  she  went  on,  deter- 
mined to  justify  herself,  "  when  she  was  dying.  It 
was  that  that  made  me  so  —  so  uncertain  about  what 
I  ought  to  do." 

"  The  talk  with  Mrs.  Webb?  "  he  repeated,  mys- 
tified. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.  "  I  thought  that  perhaps 
she  told  you.  She  said  you  were  in  love  with  me 
then." 

She  turned  away  from  him  for  fear  of  meeting 
his  glance ;  so  she  did  not  see  the  look  that  appeared 
in  his  face. 

"  She  told  you  that  I  was  in  love  with  you  then?  " 
he  repeated,  blankly.  She  did  not  reply,  and  in  a 
moment  he  went  on,  bitterly,  "  She  told  you  that, 
I  suppose,  to  turn  you  against  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  no.  You  misjudge  her.  I  knew  it 
was  only  her  fancy.  At  first  it  did  shock  me.  Then 
I  saw  that  she  was  not  to  blame." 

"  It  was  not  true,"  he  said,  his  face  whitening. 
"  I  liked  you,  I  respected  you  then.  But  I  never 
wavered  from  my  loyalty  to  her  during  all  the  years 
of  our  married  life." 

"  Oh,  I  understand,  I  understand,"  she  said,  help- 
lessly. "  I  ought  not  to  have  told  you.  But  I  felt 
that  I  must  to  explain,  to  show  you  why  I  have 
been  so  inconsistent.  At  first  it  horrified  me,  and 
then  I  tried  to  be  fair,  to  be  fair  to  you.  For  a 
time  it  made  me  fancy  that  I  really  did  care  for 
you,  just  because  I  wanted  to  be  fair.  I  said 
to  myself  that  I  wouldn't  let  the  foolish  fancy  of 


328     «^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ♦?• 

a  dying  woman  make  me  do  you  a  wrong.  Oh,  I 
see  how  silly  it  all  was." 

"  No,  not  silly,"  he  said,  gently.  "  I  can  under- 
stand it.  And  you  are  quite  right  to  tell  me.  Be- 
sides, it  is  presumption  for  me,  for  a  man  as  old 
as  I  am,  with  a  broken  life,  to  ask  you  to  share 
it  with  him.  I  might  have  known  that  it  couldn't 
be,  that  I  should  have  to  accept  my  life  as  I'd  made 
it.  I'm  always  preaching  that  doctrine.  Yet  I 
thought  that  I  might  be  the  exception.  Life  is 
before  you,  a  long  life  with  a  great  deal  of  happi- 
ness, I  hope.  After  all,  youth  belongs  to  youth, 
and  you  will  marry  some  young  fellow  and  help 
him  to  make  the  best  of  his  life.  And  there  will 
be  no  —  one  that  will  wish  you  happiness  more 
heartily  than  myself." 

He  offered  her  his  hand  and  she  gave  him  hers, 
keeping  her  head  turned  away  from  him. 

"  Perhaps  he  has  already  made  his  appearance," 
he  said,  as  he  still  held  her  hand.  "  Is  it  fair  for 
me  to  ask  if  he  has?  Is  he  the  one  that  has  made 
things  so  clear  to  you  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  then  she  said : 

"  There  is  some  one  that  I  —  I  —  " 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  asked,"  he  said,  quietly, 
with  a  little  smile.  "  I'm  premature.  But  it  will 
come  out  all  right.  I  am  sure  of  that.  Don't  you 
know,  there  are  some  women  who  are  made  to  make 
others  happy,  and  they  can't  do  that  without  being 
happy  themselves.    You  are  one  of  them." 

"  Oh,  no,  no."  She  drew  her  hand  from  his  and 
let  it  fall  by  her  side.  "  Sometimes  I  think  I  have 
been  made  for  unhappiness.  I've  had  so  much  al- 
ready." 


«^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      329 

"  Only  those,  you  know,  who  have  been  unhappy 
can  really  know  what  happiness  is."  Then,  after  a 
pause,  during  which  they  stood  facing  each  other, 
she  with  her  head  down  as  if  she  were  the  one 
who  had  received  rather  than  dealt  the  blow,  he 
went  on: 

"  You  may  be  sure  that  it  will  be  all  right.  I 
only  hope  he  is  worthy  of  you." 

His  gloves  were  lying  on  the  table,  and  he  turned 
to  take  them ;  he  held  her  hand  for  a  moment.  "  I 
shall  see  you  before  —  before  you  leave  Boston." 

"  We  end  our  season  here,"  she  said. 

"  And  what  will  you  do  then  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    My  plans  are  unsettled." 

He  smiled  faintly.  Then  he  bowed,  and  left  the 
room. 


XLI. 

It  was  the  last  night  of  the  season  at  the  Hollls 
Street  Theatre.  Evelyn  had  just  left  the  stage  after 
her  first  scene  in  the  last  act.  She  stood  in  the 
wings  a  moment  and  looked  out  at  the  audience.  In 
the  fourth  row  of  the  orchestra  sat  Mrs.  Bowen,  the 
Stearns  boys,  and  Ned  Osgood.  They  had  all  seen 
the  play  before,  and  at  Mrs.  Bowen's  suggestion 
they  had  made  up  a  little  party  to  attend  this  per- 
formance. 

Helen  Gordon  presently  came  up. 

"Last  time;  last  time,"  she  said,  playfully,  to 
Evelyn. 

"  Is  it  the  last  time  for  you  ?  "  Evelyn  asked. 

"  Yes,"  Miss  Gordon  replied,  with  a  smile. 
*''  That's  just  what  I  intended  to  tell  you.  I've  kept 
it  very  quiet,  but  I  felt  I  must  let  you  know.  I'm 
going  to  be  married." 

"  Married !  "  Evelyn  repeated. 

"  Oh,  I  remember.  You  needn't  remind  me.  I 
know  just  what  I  said.  But  dear  me,  I'm  always 
saying  those  things.     Who  do  you  suppose  it  is?  " 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Evelyn,  feeling 
sure  that  it  couldn't  be  any  of  the  men  in  the  com- 
pany. 

"  Why,  Judge  Cowdrey,  of  course,"  cried  Miss 
Gordon,  with  a  convulsion  of  rapture  and  embar- 

330 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis     ^     331 

rassment.  "  He  was  so  kind  and  so  attentive  that  I 
really  couldn't  refuse  him.  Of  course,  he  isn't  so 
very  young,  he's  fifty-five.  But  he's  ever  so  rich, 
and  he  has  a  beautiful  place  in  Cedarhurst.  We 
shall  live  there,  except  in  winter.  We'll  come  to 
town  then." 

"  And  are  you  going  to  leave  the  stage?  "  Evelyn 
asked.  It  seemed  to  her  that  if  a  woman  ever  be- 
longed to  the  stage  that  woman  was  Helen  Gordon. 

"  Yes,  for  a  time,  anyway.  My  friends  all  say 
that  I  can't  stay  off,  and  they  think  I'm  crazy  to 
get  married  again.  But  we've  talked  it  all  over. 
Judge  Cowdrey  and  I.  His  name  is  Rutherford. 
Pretty,  don't  you  think  so?  Mrs.  Rutherford 
Cowdrey!  What  a  splendid  name  to  star  under! 
Well,  he's  promised  that  after  we've  been  married 
a  year,  if  I  want  to  go  on  the  stage  again,  he'll  put 
me  at  the  head  of  a  company.  But  he  thinks  that 
I'll  get  so  interested  in  society  that  I  sha'n't  want  to. 
Well,  I  don't  know.  I've  made  my  hit,  anyway. 
Hasn't  it  been  a  great  season  for  me?" 

"Yes,  it  has,"  said  Evelyn,  sincerely.  "And 
you've  deserved  all  your  success." 

"  How  good  of  you  to  say  that!  Do  you  know 
when  we  played  in  *  As  You  Like  It '  together,  I 
was  kind  of  jealous  of  you.  You  see.  I'm  awfully 
frank.  I  hate  deceit.  But  you've  been  awfully 
nice  this  season,  and  youVe  done  splendidly  your- 
self." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Evelyn,  amused  at  Miss 
Gordon's  patronising  manner,  but  appreciating  the 
effort  to  be  generous. 

"  Have  you  signed  with  Saunderson  again?" 

"  No,"  said  Evelyn. 


2;^2      -^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «f» 

"  Why,  I  thought  he  wanted  you  for  Leonard 
Thayer's  new  play  ?  " 

"  He  did  speak  to  me,  some  time  ago." 

"  Dear  me !  How  swell  we're  getting,  refusing 
offers  from  Saunderson.  What  have  you  got? 
Something  better?  You  aren't  going  to  star,  are 
you?" 

"  No,"  Evelyn  replied,  with  a  smile.  "  I  haven't 
signed  at  all." 

"  What !  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  are 
going  to  get  married,  too?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do,"  Evelyn 
replied,  drawing  away  and  hurrying  back  to  her 
dressing-room.  She  found  Madge  there,  trying 
to  close  one  of  her  trunks.  "  I  say,"  cried  the  sou- 
brette,  without  turning  round,  as  she  struggled  with 
the  strap,  "  do  you  remember  a  year  ago  —  that  last 
night  up  in  Yonkers  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  likely  to  forget  it." 

"  It's  a  good  deal  different  from  this,  ain't  it  ? 
What  a  lot  of  things  have  happened  since  then !  " 

"  Yes,  what  a  lot,"  Evelyn  echoed,  twisting  a  curl 
before  the  mirror. 

"  Well,  you're  a  lucky  girl,  that's  all  I  can  say." 
Then  Madge  went  on,  as  if  continuing  a  train  of 
thought.  "Jimmy'll  be  wild  when  he  hears  I've 
signed  with  Saunderson  again." 

"You'll  lose  him  if  you  don't  look  out,"  said 
Evelyn.    "  He'll  take  some  one  else." 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  ain't  going  to  give  up  the  stage 
for  any  man.  I'm  not  like  you.  Wasn't  I  smart  to 
hold  off  till  Saunderson  gave  me  the  five  dollars 
extra?  You  ought  to  have  heard  us  wrangle  this 
morning  in  Davis's  office.    He'd  just  come  in  from 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^     ^33 

New  York,  and  he  was  as  sleepy  and  cross  as  a 
bear.  But  I  showed  him  I  wasn't  afraid  of  him, 
and  he  kind  of  chippered  up  after  awhile." 

"  Your  habit  of  holding  off  will  get  you  into 
trouble  one  of  these  days,"  said  Evelyn. 

"  Well,  managers  have  a  good  deal  more  respect 
for  you.  But  I  must  say  Saundie  was  awfully  nice 
about  you.  You  ought  to  have  heard  him  crack 
you  up." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  "  Evelyn  asked,  absently,  as 
if  thinking  of  something  else. 

"  Well,  he  said  he  was  sorry  to  lose  you.  He 
said  there  was  a  part  in  the  new  piece  that  you 
would  have  been  great  in.  But  he  said  you  were 
too  good  for  the  business,  and  you  were  sensible  to 
get  out  of  it  when  you  got  the  chance." 

"Did  he  —  did  he  seem  surprised?"  Evelyn 
asked,  looking  into  the  looking-glass  and  rubbing 
the  edge  of  her  lips.  She  could  see  Madge's  reflec- 
tion, and  Madge  knew  she  could  see  it ;  they  knew 
that  they  were  watching  each  other  covertly. 

Madge  deliberated  a  moment  before  replying. 
"  Well,  no ;   he  said  he'd  known  it  for  a  week." 

Madge  leaned  over  in  the  chair  where  she  was 
sitting,  rested  her  chin  on  her  two  hands,  with  her 
elbows  on  her  knees,  and  stared  at  Evelyn. 

"  Well,  you're  the  slyest  thing  I've  ever  seen  in 
my  life." 

"What  makes  you  think  so,  Madge?"  said 
Evelyn. 

"When  Mrs.  Bowen  told  me  this  morning," 
Madge  went  on,  ignoring  the  question,  "  you  could 
have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather.  To  think 
I've  been  with  you  all  these  months  and  I've  never 


334     ^      ^  Daughter  of  Thespis         «8p» 

suspected.  I  knew  something  was  up;  but  I  never 
thought  it  could  be  that." 

"  I  didn't  intend  to  be  mean,  Madge,"  said  Evelyn, 
still  keeping  her  reflection  in  the  mirror  to  escape 
facing  Madge.  "  It  was  all  —  all  uncertain  till  a 
little  while  ago." 

Madge  became  thoughtful  again.  "  To  think  that 
you  should  get  ahead  of  me,  after  all,"  she  said, 
half-mournfully,  "  but  that's  always  the  way  with 
you  deep  things !  " 

"Get  ahead  of  you?" 

"  Yes,  get  ahead.  That's  what  I  said,"  Madge 
retorted,  almost  petulantly.  "  He'll  use  it  as  an 
argument.  I've  been  singing  your  praises  for  years. 
He  thinks  you're  a  paragon.  I  used  to  tell  him 
when  I  got  old  I  was  going  to  live  with  you.  Now, 
what'll  he  say?  He'll  just  argue  and  argue.  He's 
so  tiresome  when  he  argues." 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Madge,"  said  Evelyn,  with  a 
smile. 

"  Well,  it  can't  be  helped,  I  suppose,"  Madge 
sighed.    Then  she  asked :  "  When's  he  coming  on  ?  " 

"  To-night,"  Evelyn  replied,  seeing  her  reflection 
change  colour  again.  "  He's  going  to  read  the  last 
act  of  the  new  piece  to  Mr.  Saunderson  in  the 
morning  —  a  new  act." 

"  Is  he  in  front  ?  "  Madge  asked,  eagerly. 

"  I  don't  know.  He  was  coming  on  the  three 
o'clock  train." 

"  Oh,  then  the  telegram  this  morning  was  from 
him,"  Madge  said,  half  to  herself.  She  lapsed  into 
silence  again,  which  she  broke  suddenly  :  "  Who  do 
you  suppose  I  saw  in  front  a  few  minutes  ago  — 
right  behind  Mrs.  Bowen  and  the  boys?" 


<^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «f»      335 

"I  don't  know.     Who  was  it?"  Evelyn  asked, 

Madge  looked  sharply  at  the  reflection  to  see 
if  it  had  been  fibbing. 

"  Mr.  Webb,"  she  replied. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  saw  him." 

Madge  turned  from  the  reflection  with  an  ex- 
pression of  vexation  on  her  face :  "  Well,  if  you 
ain't  the  queerest  thing!"  And  then  as  Evelyn 
made  no  comment,  she  continued :  "  Why,  I  sup- 
posed that  he  was  going  to  be  the  one." 

She  waited  for  Evelyn  to  speak;  but  as  Evelyn 
was  still  silent,  apparently  absorbed  in  the  niceties 
of  her  make-up,  she  resumed  again  with  a  temerity 
that  showed  she  was  reduced  to  desperate  extrem- 
ities :  "  I  guess  I  was  right,  after  all,  about  his 
looking  down  on  actresses." 

Her  remark  was  a  distinct  success,  for  Evelyn 
turned  sharply  around.  "  How  can  you  say  such 
a  thing!  Mr.  Webb  is  as  broad-minded  as  any 
man  I  know.  I  don't  know  any  man  that  is  broader- 
minded  or  more  chivalrous  toward  all  women  than 
he  is." 

"  Well,  there's  no  use  in  getting  so  worked  up 
about  it."  Then  when  Evelyn  had  turned  to  the 
mirror  again,  Madge  added,  helplessly :  "  If  you 
ain't  the  queerest  thing.  You  get  mad  when  I 
say  one  thing,  and  then  when  I  say  just  the  opposite 
you  get  mad  about  {hat,  too." 

"  I'm  not  mad,  Madge,"  said  Evelyn,  with  a 
smile.  "  And  I'm  sorry,"  she  went  on,  "  if  I've 
offended  you." 

They  sat  facing  each  other  for  a  moment;  then 
Madge  jumped  impatiently  from  her  seat  and  threw 


2^6      «f»      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

her  arms  around  Evelyn's  neck.  They  clung  to- 
gether, half-laughing  and  half-crying. 

"  You  know  I'm  just  as  glad  as  I  can  be,"  Madge 
exclaimed,  hysterically.  "  There's  no  one  like  you 
in  the  whole  wide  world,  and  there's  no  one  I  love 
half  so  much.  Only  it  does  seem  hard  to  think  we 
sha'n't  be  together  any  more.  It  just  breaks  my 
heart  to  think  of  it." 

"  But  we  shall  be  together  a  great  deal,  dear," 
said  Evelyn,  patting  Madge  affectionately  on  the 
back.  "  I  shall  be  in  New  York,  you  know,  and 
you'll  stay  with  us.    It  will  be  just  the  same  again." 

"  No,  it  won't,"  Madge  moaned.  "  I  guess  I 
know  better  than  that.  I  guess  I  know  you're  a 
good  deal  better  than  I  am.  I've  told  Jimmy  so  a 
hundred  times,  and  he  knows  it,  even  if  he  don't  say 
so.  You'll  be  a  big  swell,  an'  I'll  just  be  a  poor 
actress,  an'  I'll  get  old,  and  it'll  be  —  " 

"  There,  there,  Madge,  please  don't.  It's  silly  to 
talk  that  way;  besides,  you'll  spoil  your  make-up." 

"  Well,  let  me  give  you  one  good  kiss  and  a 
good  hug,"  said  Madge.  "  There !  You  know  I 
hope  you'll  be  awfully  happy.  And  if  I've  been 
hateful  about  it,  it's  just  because  I'm  so  sorry  to  —  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I've  known  all  the  time,  Madge,"  said 
Evelyn,  as  the  soubrette  lifted  her  head  from  her 
shoulder  and  dried  her  eyes. 

Oswald  Webb  was  sitting  so  near  the  stage  that 
Evelyn  could  see  him  across  the  footlights;  she 
noticed  that  the  seat  beside  him  was  vacant.  During 
the  last  act,  however,  a  young  man  came  in  and 
took  the  place.  Madge,  who  was  standing  in  the 
wings  in  her  gorgeous  pink  silk  frock,  with  bare 
neck  and  arms,  saw  this  proceeding,  and,  catching 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^     337 

Evelyn's  eye,  laughed  and  threw  a  kiss  at  her. 
When  she  went  on  the  stage,  she  whispered : 

"  Ain't  it  funny  ?  S'pose  he  knows  —  Mr.  Webb, 
I  mean?  P'r'aps  he's  telling  him  now."  Evelyn 
tried  to  look  composed,  but  she  felt  miserable. 
Madge's  vivacity  made  her  scene  go  briskly,  but 
Evelyn  imagined  that  the  act  dragged,  and  she  won- 
dered if  it  ever  would  end.  When  the  curtain  fell 
she  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  Helen  Gordon  and 
Harry  Davidson  were  in  the  final  tableau,  and  as 
soon  as  the  audience  had  disappeared  from  their 
sight,  Helen  Gordon  scrambled  from  the  floor, 
where  sihe  had  fallen  prostrate,  and  cried  dramati- 
cally, lifting  her  arms  in  apostrophe: 

"  Farewell,  fareviell,  dear  old  stage !  How  I 
love  you!    And,  oh,  how  I  just  hate  to  leave  you!  " 

Miss  Gordon  was  obliged  to  throw  herself  on  the 
floor  again,  however,  as  the  applause  of  the  audience 
sent  the  curtain  up  again.  Miss  Gordon  was  smiling 
when  she  picked  herself  up  a  second  time.  "  I 
wonder  if  that  was  an  omen,"  she  said,  passing  her 
handkerchief  over  her  lips.  "  I  may  come  back  to 
it,  after  all."  Then  she  turned  to  Evelyn  again,  and 
taking  her  hand,  she  said : 

"  Madge  has  told  me.  I'm  so  glad.  He's  just 
the  right  kind  for  you,  and  you're  awfully  lucky  to 
get  him.  You  weren't  fit  for  this  business,  anyway." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  said  Evelyn,  who  didn't  enjoy 
being  told  by  others  what  she  often  told  herself. 

"  I  suppose  you'll  live  in  New  York  and  take  in 
all  the  first  nights,"  Miss  Gordon  went  on.  "  I 
intend  to.  And  you  can  give  him  lots  of  points 
about  plays,  from  your  experience.  Most  of  those 
literary  men  that  try  to  write  plays  are  awfully 


338      ^     A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

impracticable.  It  seems  strange,"  she  mused,  hold- 
ing her  handkerchief  in  a  ball  in  her  right  hand 
with  one  finger  on  her  lip,  "  but  you  don't  think 
you'll  go  on  again  —  really  ?  " 

Evelyn  shook  her  head. 

Miss  Gordon  smiled. 

"  He  could  write  a  play  for  you  and  give  you  all 
the  fat" 

Evelyn  smiled.     "  It  wouldn't  tempt  me." 

"  I  wish  he'd  write  a  play  for  me,"  the  actress 
went  on,  oblivious  of  her  retirement.  "  I'll  call 
to  see  you,  anyway,  and  we  must  have  you  down 
to  Cedarhurst.  We're  to  be  married  early  next 
month,  and  then  we'll  go  to  Newport  for  a  while 
and  perhaps  to  Narragansett.  But  we'll  be  back 
by  September.     When  is  your  wedding  to  be  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  exactly,"  said  Evelyn,  quailing 
before  Miss  Gordon's  definiteness.  "  Not  before 
August,  anyway." 

"And  will  you  go  to  Cohasset  again?" 

"Yes.  I  shall  be  with  Mrs.  Bowen  till  — till 
August." 

Miss  Gordon  took  herself  off  to  her  dressing- 
room,  and  before  Evelyn  could  escape  several  mem- 
bers of  the  company  surrounded  her,  clamouring 
congratulations;  Madge  had  evidently  been  busy 
during  the  whole  of  the  evening.  Evelyn  finally 
broke  away  from  them,  however,  and  hurried  into 
the  wings. 


XLII. 

In  the  corridor  Evelyn  came  face  to  face  with 
Mrs.  Bowen  and  the  boys,  who  were  talking  with 
Oswald  Webb  and  Leonard  Thayer.  As  the  boys 
had  been  dining  at  the  boarding-house,  she  shook 
hands  with  Thayer  and  Webb  only. 

"  We've  just  heard  the  news,"  said  Ned.  "  If 
Mr.  Thayer  weren't  here  we'd  all  kiss  you." 

"  Well,  you  may  kiss  me  if  you  like,"  Evelyn 
said. 

"  I  don't  dare  in  public,"  Ned  replied,  shaking  her 
hand  and  blushing  furiously. 

"  I  suppose  that  Roscoe  and  Gerald  wouldn't  kiss 
me  even  if  I  asked  them,"  she  said,  as  they  offered 
her  their  hands. 

"  We're  afraid  of  setting  Ned  a  bad  example," 
said  Roscoe. 

"  He's  been  worse  than  ever  lately,"  said  Gerald. 
"  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  how  he  behaved  during 
the  play.    He  kept  clapping  at  the  wrong  places," 

They  followed  Evelyn  to  the  dressing-room, 
where  Madge  was  already  in  street  costume. 

"  It  was  very  lucky,  our  meeting  Mr.  Thayer," 
said  Mrs.  Bowen,  in  her  soft  voice.  "  We  couldn't 
have  come  here  if  we  hadn't.  Evelyn  wouldn't 
let  us  when  we  suggested  it  to-night,"  she  said, 
turning  to  Thayer. 

339 


340      <^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *^ 

Ned  looked  around  ecstatically.  "  It  reminds  me 
of  the  night  I  'suped  '  at  the  opera." 

"  I  was  afraid  Mr.  Saunderson  wouldn't  like  it," 
Evelyn  explained. 

"  I  didn't  ask  his  permission,"  said  Thayer. 
"  And   didn't   the   doorkeeper   object? "    Evelyn 
asked,  knowing  the  invincible  nature  of  the  door- 
keeper. 

"  Not  when  he  heard  I  was  the  Great  Author," 
Tl.ayer  replied,  grandly. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  can't  ask  you  all  in,"  Evelyn  said, 
as  they  stood  at  the  door  of  the  dressing-room. 
"  The  place  wouldn't  hold  you  all." 

Madge  was  already  deep  in  conversation  in  the 
corridor  with  the  boys  and  with  Willie  Boyd,  who 
had  been  waiting  for  her.  Leonard  Thayer  began 
to  talk  to  Mrs,  Bowen,  who  had  walked  a  few  yards 
away  and  was  standing  under  the  gaslight;  so  Os- 
wald Webb  had  an  opportunity  to  speak  with  Eve- 
lyn alone. 

"  It  must  seem  very  odd,  my  coming  here  to- 
night," he  said.  "  But  when  Thayer  asked  me  to 
come  I  couldn't  refuse,  especially  after  what  he 
had  told  me." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  come,"  she  replied. 

"  It's  just  the  right  thing.  I  wonder  I  hadn't 
thought  of  it.  It  only  shows  what  a  stupid  old 
fogy  I  am." 

"Thank   you,"   she  said. 

"I  wanted  especially  to  see  you  to-night,"  he 
added,  "  to  bid  you  good-bye." 

"Are  you  going  away?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  to  sail  next  week  —  from  New 
York." 


•^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      *^      341 

"  And  you  are  coming  back  in  the  fall  ?  " 

"  Perhaps.     I  can't  tell  yet." 

"  But  your  plans  —  The  Universe?  Have  you 
decided?" 

"  I've  decided  not  to  do  anything  about  it  till 
the  fall,"  he  interrupted.  "  The  offer  is  open  to 
me  till  then." 

"  I  hope  that  you  will  take  it.  It  would  be 
such  a  pity  not  to."  Then  Evelyn  added,  impul- 
sively :  "  Before  you  go  —  won't  you  do  something 
for  me?" 

He  looked  at  her  gravely. 

"  Promise  me  not  to  —  not  to  give  up  your  am- 
bition, I  mean  your  work.  It  seems  so  foolish  to 
give  up  on  —  on  account  —  "  she  stammered,  and 
he  helped  her  out  of  the  difficulty  by  finishing 
the  sentence  for  her. 

"  On  account  of  you  ?  " 

"  On  account  of  me  or  any  woman." 

"  But  it  was  you  who  gave  me  my  incentive." 

"  Then  you  must  keep  it  up  yourself,"  she  went 
on.     "  I'm  sure  you  are  strong  enough  for  that." 

"  Will  it  piake  any  difference  to  you  —  really  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  will  make  a  great  difference,"  she  re- 
plied, simply.  "  You  have  done  so  much  for  me, 
and  I  want  —  " 

"  I  have  done  so  much,"  he  repeated,  in  a  tone 
of  surprise.     "What  have  I  done?" 

"  Oh,  you  made  me  see  things  so  differently  — 
when  I  was  unhappy,  when  everything  seemed  dull 
and  sordid  to  me." 

"  Thank  you  for  telling  me  that,"  he  said. 

"Then  you  will  promise?" 


342      ^     A  Daughter  of  Thespis         «^ 

"  I'll  promise  to  try  —  to  do  my  best,"  he  said, 
with  a  laugh,  at  the  same  time  extending  his  hand. 

Thayer  came  back  with  Mrs.  Bowen  to  say  good- 
bye to  Webb. 

"So  we  siha'n't  see  you  till  the  fall,  then?" 
hie  said.  "  I  hope  you'll  have  a  pleasant  trip,  and 
when  you  come  back  you  must  put  that  Universe 
scheme  of  yours  through.  We  need  men  like  you 
in  New  York." 

Webb  broke  away  from  the  group,  bade  Madge 
and  the  boys  good-bye,  and  disappeared  down  the 
corridor. 

Mrs.  Bowen  had  watched  the  scene  with  her 
bright  little  eyes,  gathering  plentiful  material  for 
one  of  the  most  exciting  of  her  letters  to  her  hus- 
band. In  spite  of  her  bright  looks,  however,  she 
was  very  tired,  and  Evelyn  caught  her  yawning. 

"  You  mustn't  wait  for  me,  dear,"  she  said.  "  It 
will  take  half  an  hour  to  dress  and  pack  my  things. 
If  you  and  Madge  and  the  boys  will  go  along,  Mr. 
Thayer  will  take  me  home." 

"  But  we're  going  to  have  a  little  supper,  you 
know,"  Mrs.  Bowen  explained.  "  So  hurry !  You'll 
come,  of  course,  Mr.  Thayer.  It's  in  honour  of 
you,  you  know  —  and  some  one  else."  The  alacrity 
with  which  she  acted  on  Evelyn's  suggestion  made 
Thayer  suspect  that  her  yawn  had  been  feigned. 

It  was  a  half-hour  before  Evelyn  was  ready  to 
leave  the  theatre.  Most  of  the  actors  had  gone, 
and  darkness  and  silence  reigned  in  the  place.  She 
closed  the  door  behind  her  and  hurried  down  the 
corridor.  Thayer  was  chatting  with  the  doorkeeper. 
He  took  her  bag  from  her  hand  and  they  left  the 
theatre  together. 


♦         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^     343 

"  It  was  very  nice  of  Mrs.  Bowen  to  give  me 
a  chance  to  walk  home  with  you  alone,"  he  said, 
when  she  had  taken  'his  arm. 

"  It  was  just  like  her,"  she  replied.  Her  voice 
was  partly  muffled  behind  her  thick  veil. 

The  little  side  street  where  they  were  walking 
was  nearly  deserted,  but  from  either  end  they  could 
hear  the  clanging  of  the  trolley-cars  in  Washington 
and  Tremont  Streets. 

"  I  wanted  to  come  on  before  last  Tuesday,"  he 
said,  "  as  soon  as  I  got  your  letter.  But  I  had  to 
work  over  the  third  act  with  Saunderson.  He 
wasn't  satisfied  with  it  as  I  first  wrote  it.  Your 
letter  made  me  very  happy.  I  couldn't  help  writ- 
ing," he  went  on.  "  I  tried  not  to.  I  was  afraid 
of  shattering  everything  —  all  my  hopes.  Then 
I  was  afraid  I  couldn't  finish  the  new  act  of  the 
play  if  I  —  well,  if  you  refused  me." 

"But  you  have  finished  it,  haven't  you?"  she 
asked. 

"  Yes,  I  have  now,  but  I  hadn't  when  I  wrote 
that  letter.  I  made  a  resolution  not  to  speak  out 
till  I'd  written  the  last  line.  Some  one  says  that 
an  author  ought  not  to  let  anything  interrupt  his 
work;  he  ought  to  keep  on  writing  whether  he's 
in  good  spirits  or  bad  spirits,  or  crossed  in  love,  or 
anything  else.  Well,  I  used  to  think  so,  too.  Then 
when  the  test  came  my  theories  went  to  the  winds. 
I  found  myself  writing  as  I  had  never  written  be- 
fore, and  I  didn't  want  to  spoil  it  all,"  he  laughed, 
"  for  I  knew  that  if  I  lost  hope  I  never  could  finish 
the  piece.  You  ought  to  have  seen  my  work  after 
I  got  your  letter.     My  pen  fairly  flew !  " 

She  laughed  quietly,  brushing  her  face  against 


344      *^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         *^ 

his  coat-sleeve.     "  You  don't  know  how  I  —  how 
glad  I  was  to  write  it,"  she  confessed. 

They  were  in  the  glare  of  Tremont  Street  by  this 
time;  so  he  couldn't  make  the  proper  acknowledg- 
ment of  this  speech.  He  had  to  content  himself  with 
pressing  her  arm  more  closely  in  his  own. 

"  Shall  we  take  a  car?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  let's  walk.    It  isn't  far." 

They  said  very  little  as  they  walked.  They  were 
content  to  be  silent;  they  had  things  to  say  that 
were  too  fine  for  any  speech.  The  great  trees  in 
the  Common  with  their  rich  foliage  were  very 
sombre  in  the  darkness  of  the  night.  As  they 
turned  up  the  path  toward  Beacon  Street,  he  said : 
"  I've  been  writing  about  people  in  love  for  years, 
and  trying  to  tell  how  they  felt.  I  thought  I  could 
imagine  it.  But  that  was  a  mistake."  Then,  as  she 
did  not  answer,  he  went  on :  "  Why,  it  makes  the 
whole  world  seem  different.  I  can't  understand  why 
people  complain  about  life  any  more.  I  wouldn't 
change  the  world  in  any  particular  if  I  could." 

She  laughed  softly  again,  and  said  that  so  much 
depended  on  the  way  you  looked  at  things,  on  the 
point  of  view. 

"  Now  to-night,"  he  went  on,  as  they  walked 
more  slowly  up  the  hill,  "  as  I  talked  with  Oswald 
Webb,  he  seemed  so  sombre.  It  wasn't  so  much 
what  he  said,  but  the  way  he  said  it,  and  the  way 
he  looked  at  everything.  I  wanted  to  slap  him 
on  the  back  and  say,  *  Cheer  up,  old  man !  There's 
plenty  in  life  for  you,  yet.'  I  thought  he  might  have 
shown  a  little  more  spirit,  too.  I'd  just  told  him 
the  news." 

"Oh!"  said  Evelyn. 


^         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      ^      345 

"Of  course,  he  seemed  glad  and  all  that.  But 
I  wish  he  wouldn't  take  himself  so  seriously.  He 
ought  to  get  married  again." 

Then,  feeling  that  unless  she  spoke  out,  she  should 
be  deceitful,  she  told  him  in  a  few  words  the 
whole  story  of  her  acquaintance  with  Oswald  Webb. 

"  I  must  have  tortured  him,"  he  said.  "  How 
often  it  is  that  one  man's  happiness  makes  another 
man's  misery." 

''  Yes,"  she  replied,  clinging  closer  to  his  arm. 
"  That's  one  of  the  terrible  things  about  happiness." 

For  a  week  after  the  close  of  the  season,  Evelyn 
remained  at  the  boarding-house  with  Mrs.  Bowen. 
Then  they  both  returned  to  Cohasset,  where  they 
had  an  impressive  welcome  from  Mrs.  Appleby, 
and  a  greeting,  quieter,  though  none  the  less  sincere, 
from  Mrs.  Appleby's  husband.  The  boys  had  gone 
down  to  Maine  for  the  summer,  and  to  Evelyn  the 
place  seemed  changed.  Somehow  she  could  not 
associate  it  with  herself  any  more;  she  felt  as  if  she 
had  known  it  in  a  remote  existence.  Leonard 
Thayer  retained  the  rooms  he  had  taken  at  a  Boston 
hotel,  and  appeared  at  the  cottage  every  day, 
renewing  with  pleasure  his  acquaintance  with  the 
Applebys.  Mrs.  Appleby,  who,  in  spite  of  the  loss 
of  her  illusions,  still  loved  the  romantic  aspects  of 
life,  used  to  voice  her  amazement  at  the  fate  that 
had  drawn  together  two  people  who  at  intervals 
so  distant  had  been  included  among  her  boarders. 
"  Well,  well !  "  she  would  say,  as  she  stood  at  her 
window,  and  saw  Evelyn  and  Thayer  walking  to- 
gether, and  she  would  remark  to  Mrs.  Bowen, 
"Who'd  have  thought  a  year  ago?     Who'd  have 


346      •^      A  Daughter  of  Thespis         ^ 

thought?  But  I  always  said  there  was  none  too 
good  for  her !  " 

Though  the  new  play  had  been  approved  in 
every  detail  by  Saunderson,  Leonard  Thayer  con- 
tinued to  work  on  it.  When  he  solicited  advice 
from  Evelyn  with  regard  to  the  actress  who  could 
play  Alice,  she  told  him  of  Madge's  suggestion,  and 
he  received  it  with  delight.  "  I'll  wire  Saunderson 
this  very  day  to  try  to  engage  Miss  Livingstone," 
he  exclaimed. 

Early  in  August  Evelyn  was  married  in  Boston. 
Mrs.  Bowen  and  the  Applebys  and  Madge  Guernsey 
were  present  at  the  ceremony.  The  little  group  sat 
at  a  wedding  breakfast  at  the  Parker  House,  and 
Evelyn  and  her  husband  took  an  afternoon  train 
for  New  York.  After  a  month  on  the  Jersey  coast, 
they  returned  to  town  so  that  Thayer  might  re- 
hearse the  new  comedy,  which  Saunderson  had 
decided  to  put  on  in  October.  They  took  rooms 
at  a  hotel,  with  the  agreement  that  if  the  piece  proved 
to  be  successful  they  should  look  about  for  a  house. 
If  it  failed,  they  would  content  themselves  with  an 
apartment.  It  was  not  until  the  day  before  re- 
hearsals began  that  the  name  was  finally  decided 
on.  Thayer  had  submitted  several  titles  to  Saun- 
derson who,  after  long  discussion  and  argument, 
decided  on  a  title  of  his  own,  "  A  Man  of  Honour." 
Evelyn  attended  several  of  the  rehearsals,  which 
moved  far  more  smoothly  than  those  in  which  she 
had  figured  so  unhappily  a  year  before.  Belle  Liv- 
ingstone, who  had  eagerly  accepted  Saunderson's 
offer,  showed  from  the  first  rehearsal  that  Madge 
had  justly  appreciated  her  qualities.  Evelyn  took 
pains  to  give  Madge  credit  for  the  suggestion  lead- 


«f»         A  Daughter  of  Thespis      «^     347 

ing  to  the  offer  of  the  part.  Miss  Livingstone  was 
so  grateful  that  Evelyn  could  foresee  harmonious 
companionship  between  the  two  girls.  As  for  Mrs. 
Barton,  she  declared,  with  tears,  that  she  had  never 
been  so  happy  in  her  life.  Besides,  Harry  David- 
son remained  in  good  humour,  and  the  company 
worked  easily  together.  Madge  Guernsey  was  de- 
lighted with  her  part  and  was  impatient  for  the 
coming  of  the  first  night.  So  sure  were  all  the 
actors  of  success  that  Evelyn  felt  secretly  appre- 
hensive. As  the  rehearsals  progressed,  several 
pieces  made  failures  in  New  York  and  a  bad  sea- 
son was  prophesied.  But  the  new  comedy  pleased 
both  the  audience  and  the  critics.  Harry  Davidson 
was  successfully  established  as  a  "  star,"  Madge 
Guernsey  won  enthusiastic  praise  for  the  humour 
and  the  vivacity  with  which  she  played  Jenny 
Ballou,  and  both  Belle  Livingstone  and  Mrs.  Barton 
received  good  notices.  On  the  day  after  the  pro- 
duction Leonard  Thayer  had  offers  for  three  new 
plays,  two  from  managers  and  one  from  a  popular 
actor.  He  held  the  letters  in  his  hand  as  he  told 
his  wife  about  the  terms :  "  We  might  as  well  begin 
and  look  about  for  that  house,"  he  said,  and  he  bent 
forward  and  kissed  her.  "Thank  God  for  the 
theatre,"  he  said. 


THE    END. 


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PAGERS  COMMONWEALTH  SERIES 

Literary  growth  in  America  has  been  of  late  years  as  rapid 
as  its  material  and  economical  progress.  The  vast  size  of  the 
country,  the  climatic  and  moral  conditions  of  its  different  parts, 
and  the  separate  political  and  social  elements,  have  all  tended 
to  create  distinct  methods  of  literary  expression  in  various  sec- 
tions. In  offering  from  time  to  time  the  books  in  the  "  COM- 
MONWEALTH SERIES,"  we  shaU  select  a  novel  or  story 
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lar  section  of  the  country  which  each  author  represents.  The 
elegance  of  paper,  press-work,  and  binding,  and  the  lavish  and 
artistic  illustrations,  as  well  as  the  convenient  size,  add  not  a 
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Number  5.  (luinois)  The  Russells  in  Chi- 
cago. By  Emily  Wheaton.  Illustrated  with  full-page 
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This  entertaining  story  is  the  narrative  of  the  experiences  of 
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the  wilds  by  Lake  Michigan.  The  characteristics  of  life  in  the 
great  Western  metropolis,  as  well  as  the  foibles  of  the  impec- 
cable Eastern  critic,  are  touched  with  a  gentle  and  amusing 
satire,  as  kindly  as  it  is  observant  and  keen. 

Even  without  the  omen  of  success  afforded  in  the  previous 
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favorable  reception  for  this  charming  story. 

Number  6.  (New  York)  Councils  of  Croesus. 

By  Mary  Knight  Potter,  author  of  "  Love  in  Art,"  etc. 
Cloth,  large  1 6mo,  gilt  top,  illustrated       .         .         .     $i-25 
A  clever  and  vivacious  story  of  life  in  New  York  society 
circles. 


Selections  from 

L.  C.  Page  and  Company's 

List  of  Fiction 

WORKS  OF 

ROBERT  NEILSON  STEPHENS 
Captain    Ravenshaw;     or,    the    maid   of 

Cheapside,     (35th  thousand.)     A  romance  of  Elizabethan 

London.     Illustrations  by  Howard  Pyle  and  other  artists. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  .         .         .  .         .     $1.50 

Not  since  the  absorbing  adventures  of  D'Artagnan  have  we 

had   anything  so  good    in  the  blended  vein  of  romance  and 

comedy.    The  beggar  student,  the  rich  goldsmith,  the  roisterer 

and  the  rake,  the  fop  and  the  maid,  are  all  here :  foremost 

among  them,  Captain  Ravenshaw  himself,  soldier  of  fortune 

and   adventurer,   who,   after   escapades   of    binding   interest, 

finally  wins  a  way  to  fame  and  to  matrimony.     The  rescue  of 

a  maid  from  the  designs  of  an  unscrupulous  father  and  rakish 

lord  forms  the  principal  and  underlying  theme,  around  which 

incidents  group  themselves  with  sufficient  rapidity  to  hold  one's 

attention  spellbound. 

Philip  WinwOOd.  (70th  thousand.)  A  Sketch  of 
the  Domestic  History  of  an  American  Captain  in  the  War  of 
Independence,  embracing  events  that  occurred  between  and 
during  the  years  1763  and  1785  in  New  York  and  London. 
Written  by  his  Enemy  in  War,  Herbert  Russell,  Lieutenant 
in  the  Loyalist  Forces.  Presented  anew  by  Robert  Neil- 
son  Stephens.     Illustrated  by  E.  W.  D.  Hamilton. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth |i-5° 

"  One  of  the  most  stirring  and  remarkable  romance*  that  have 

been  published   in  a  long  while,  and  its   episodes,  incidents,  and 

actions  are   as   interesting   and  agreeable  as   they  are   vivid  and 

dramatic."  —  Boston  Times. 


L.    C.   PAGE   AND    COMPANY'S 


An  Enemy  to  the  King^.   (40th  thousand.)  From 

the  "  Recentiy   Discovered    Memoirs  of   the   Sieur   de   la 
Toumoire."     Illustrated  by  H.  De  M.  Young, 

Library  i2mo,  cloth $1.50 

An  historical  romance  of  the  sixteenth  century,  describing 
the  adventures  of  a  young  French  nobleman  at  the  Court  of 
Henry  III.,  and  on  the  field  with  Henry  of  Navarre. 
"  A  stirring  tale."  —  Detroit  Free  Press. 
"  A  royally  strong  piece  of  fiction." —  Boston  Ideas. 
"  Interesting  from  the  first  to  the  last  page."  —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 
"  Brilliant  as  a  play ;  it  is  equally  brilliant  as  a  romantic  noTel."  — 
Philadelphia  Press. 

The  Continental  Dragoon :   a  romance  of 

Philipse  Manor  House  in  1778.    (42d  thousand.)   Illus- 
trated by  H.  C.  Edwards. 
Library  i2mo,  cloth  ......     $1.50 

A  stirring  romance  of  the  Revolution,  the  scene  being  laid 
in  and  around  the. old  Philipse  Manor  House,  near  Yonkers, 
which  at  the  time  of  the  story  was  the  central  point  of  the  so- 
called  "  neutral  territory  "  between  the  two  armies. 

The  Road  to  Paris :   a  story  of  adventure. 

(23d  thousand.)     Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth $1.50 

An  historical  romance  of  the  i8th  century,  being  an  account 
of  the  life  of  an  American  gentleman  adventurer  of  Jacobite 
ancestry,  whose  family  early  settled  in  the  colony  of  Pennsyl- 
vania. 

A  Qentleman  Player :  his  adventures  on  a 

Secret  Mission  for   Queen   Elizabeth.      (3Sth   thou- 

sand.)     Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth $1-50 

"A  Gentleman  Player  "is  a  romance  of  the  Elizabethan 
period.  It  relates  the  story  of  a  young  gentleman  who,  in  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  falls  so  low  in  his  fortune  that  he  joins 
Shakespeare's  company  of  players,  and  becomes  a  friend  and 
protigrf  of  the  great  poet. 


LIST  OF  FICTION 


WORKS  OF 

CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 
The  Heart  of  the  Ancient  Wood. 

Library  i2mo,  gilt  top,  decorative  cover,  illustrated  .  $1.50 
This  book  strikes  a  new  note  in  literature.  It  is  a  realistic 
romance  of  the  folk  of  the  forest,  —  a  romance  of  the  alliance 
of  peace  between  a  pioneer's  daughter  in  the  depths  of  the 
ancient  wood  and  the  wild  beasts  who  felt  her  spell  and 
became  her  friends.  It  is  not  fanciful,  with  talking  beasts; 
nor  is  it  merely  an  exquisite  idyl  of  the  beasts  themselves.  It 
is  an  actual  romance  in  which  the  animal  characters  play  their 
parts  as  naturally  as  do  the  human. 

The  Forge  in  the  Forest.  Being  the  Narrative 
of  the  Acadian  Ranger,  Jean  de  Mer,  Siegneur  de  Briart, 
and  how  he  crossed  the  Black  Abbd,  and  of  his  Adventures 
in  a  Strange  Fellowship.  Illustrated  by  Henry  Sandham, 
R.  C  A. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  deckle-edge  paper        .     $1.50 
A  romance  of  the  convulsive  period  of  the  struggle  between 

the  French  and  English  for  the  possession  of  North  America. 

The  story  is  one  of  pure  love  and  heroic  adventure,  and  deals 

with  that  fiery  fringe  of  conflict  that  waved  between  Nova 

Scotia  and  New  England. 

A  Sister  to  Evangeline.    Being  the  story  of 

Yvonne  de  Lamourie,  and  how  she  went  into  Exile  with  the 

Villagers  of  Grand  Prd. 

Library   i2mo,    cloth,   deckle-edge   paper,   gilt    top, 

illustrated 1 1.50 

This  is  a  romance  of  the  great  expulsion  of  the  Acadians 
which  Longfellow  first  immortalized  in  "  Evangeline."  Swift 
action,  fresh  atmosphere,  wholesome  purity,  deep  passion, 
searching  analysis,  characterize  this  strong  novel;  and  the 
tragic  theme  of  the  exile  is  relieved  by  the  charm  of  the  wilful 
demoiselle  and  the  spirit  of  the  courtly  seigneur,  who  bring  the 
manners  of  old  France  to  the  Acadian  woods. 


Z.    C.   PAGE   AND    COMPANY'S 


Works  of  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  (Continued) 

Earth's  Enigmas. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth,  uncut  edges  .  .  .  .  $1.25 
This  is  the  author's  first  volume  of  stories  and  the  one  which 
discovered  him  as  a  fiction  writer  of  advanced  rank.  The 
tales  deal  chiefly  with  those  elemental  problems  of  the  mys- 
teries of  life,  —  pain,  the  unknown,  the  strange  kinship  of  man 
and  beast  in  the  struggle  for  existence,  —  the  enigmas  which 
occur  chiefly  to  the  primitive  folk  on  the  backwoods  fringe  of 
civilization,  and  they  arrest  attention  for  their  sincerity,  their 
freshness  of  first-hand  knowledge,  and  their  superior  craft 

By  the  Marshes  of  Minas. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  illustrated  .  .  .  $1.25 
This  is  a  volume  of  romance  of  love  and  adventure  in  that 
picturesque  period  when  Nova  Scotia  was  passing  from  the 
French  to  the  English  regime,  of  which  Professor  Roberts  is 
the  acknowledged  celebrant.  Each  tale  is  independent  of  the 
others,  but  the  scenes  are  similar,  and  in  several  of  them  the 
evil  "  Black  Abb^,"  well  known  from  the  author's  previous 
novels,  again  appears  with  his  savages  at  his  heels  —  but  to  be 
thwarted  always  by  woman's  wit  or  soldier's  courage. 


WORKS  OF 

MAURUS  JOKAI 

ManaSSeh.      Translated  by   P.  F.   Bicknell.     With   a 
portrait  in  photogravure  of  Dr.  Jdkai. 

Library  i2mo,  cloth  decorative  .         .         .         .     $1.50 

An  absorbing  story  of  life  among  a  happy  and  primitive 
people  hidden  away  in  far  Transylvania,  whose  peaceful  life  is 
never  disturbed  except  by  the  inroads  of  their  turbulent  neigh- 
bors. The  opening  scenes  are  laid  in  Rome ;  and  the  view  of 
the  corrupt,  intriguing  society  there  forms  a  picturesque  con- 
trast to  the  scenes  of  pastoral  simplicity  and  savage  border 
warfare  that  succeed. 


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